


Like a Patrick Swayze Movie

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Banshee Lydia Martin, Ghost Stiles Stilinski, Gun Violence, He's dead y'all, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 02, Resurrection, What the fuck is a canon, annoyance to pack to lovers, but he's not gonna stay dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: “‘Sup.”Peter stared at the figure sitting on his couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table, two fingers raised in greeting. He was slouched casually, dressed in lacrosse gear, with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.“… Hello Stiles."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thing I started on tumblr, so if you're over there then the first 600 words might look familiar. After I posted it I started writing some more, and I was like "yes good I will finish the story completely and THEN start posting" but it turns out I need validation to live so

“‘Sup.”

Peter stared at the figure sitting on his couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table, two fingers raised in greeting. He was slouched casually, dressed in lacrosse gear, with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

“… Hello Stiles. I’d ask how you’re doing, but… I can see the answer on your face.” He smirked as he took a seat in his armchair kitty-corner to the couch.

Stiles scowled and gestured between them.

“Abso- _fucking_ -loutely not. We don’t know each other well enough for that yet. You do not have pun privileges.”

“But apparently I have the privilege of a visit from your ghost,” Peter said with a pointedly raised eyebrow. Stiles crossed his arms.

“Yeah! I’m dead. You _were_ dead, and now you’re not. Tell me how to get un-dead.”

“Un-dead is not the same as alive.”

“Then tell me how to get alive, asshole.”

Peter looked at him with a critically curious eye. Before, beneath his single-minded focus on revenge, Peter had been very intrigued by Stiles. He’d been honest when he said that he liked him. With all of his energy focused on killing Argent, though, he hadn’t looked more deeply into why he was so captivated by the boy. But now…

“I’m frankly astonished that you’re a ghost at all,” he mused.

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“It’s the Stilinski way to exceed expectations,” he said sarcastically with an impatient bite. “Now how the fuck do I fix my body and get back into it?”

Peter stretched out his legs and clasped his hands across his stomach after brushing a piece of lint from his trousers.

“Whether that can happen depends entirely on how you became a ghost in the first place,” he said, pausing when the lights in the apartment flickered. He looked back over at Stiles, or what remained of him, to see that he’d tensed, fingers dug into the couch.

“What do you mean ‘whether that can happen’?” he asked, voice low. “You were dead and now you’re not, so clearly it’s possible.”

A drawer in the coffee table that was slightly ajar suddenly snapped shut.

Peter slowly straightened, significantly more cautious than he’d been a moment ago.

“What I meant,” he explained, keeping one eye on Stiles and another on any sharp objects that might start moving on their own, “is that it’s impossible for a normal human to remain attached to the world of the living after death. You must have some supernatural blood, and the magic that runs through that.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open, clearly surprised at learning that he wasn’t human, which intrigued Peter further.

“There’s also the question of what connection is tying you here. I used the connection of my bite to Lydia. What is keeping you here, Stiles?”

“My dad.”

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“It’s got to be my dad,” Stiles insisted. “I need- I have to take care of him. Without me-” His voice choked off, fingers digging further into the couch, creating actual indentations. The drawers on the coffee table started rattling, and Peter sat up straighter, hands loose and ready.

“Stiles,” he said soothingly, “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.” He had no fucking clue what, but his number one priority was to calm the frankly terrifyingly powerful teenage ghost in his living room.

“Then _WHAT?”_ Stiles exploded, shooting up from the couch. _“WHAT DO I DO?”_

The lights flickered and then flared, making the room unbearably bright before every light bulb burst, plunging the room into darkness.

The tinkling of the glass settled into a pressing silence.

“Shit,” Stiles mumbled quietly, still standing. “Sorry.”

Peter sighed.

“I’m going to vacuum this up, and then we’ll look in a few of my books,” he said.

The sooner he could get the dead kid out of his apartment, the better.

* * *

Peter was running a finger down the table of contents with a frown.

“We really need to figure out what you are first,” he mused. “You’ve never exhibited any kind of animal characteristics?’

“Only my animal magnetism,” Stiles drawled dryly from the kitchen counter, bouncing his heel off a cabinet door.

“Never wanted to taste human flesh?”

Stiles looked revolted.

“Definitely not.”

“Do spontaneous orgies ever occur in your presence?”

“...”

Peter looked up at Stiles’ silence to see his incredulous face.

“Do you find people to be particularly sexually charged around you?” he asked impatiently.

“No!” Stiles practically shouted. “What the hell!”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Incubi and succubi, Stiles. It’s simply food for them, no need to get worked up about it.” Peter would bet everything that if Stiles had any blood to work with, his cheeks would be flaming red right now. “That strikes out all of the creatures I can think of, which leaves us with magic users.”

Stiles perked up at that.

“I used mountain ash once!” His face dimmed. “Kind of.”

“‘Kind of’? How does one ‘kind of’ use mountain ash?” Peter asked, eyebrow raised.

“Deaton gave me some mountain ash, said I had to use a- a spark? I think that’s the word he used.” Stiles shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter to him. “It sounded like I had just enough _oomph_ or whatever make the magic work, as long as I believed it would. He didn’t actually give me enough to circle the warehouse, but I Tinkerbelled that shit and it still worked.” He shrugged again. “I don’t know if that actually counts as magic or what.”

Peter looked at him in disbelief.

“No.”

“... Yes?”

 _“No,”_ Peter said again. “You must have been mistaken.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open.

“Uh, yeah dude. Derek couldn’t get past it. I had to break it for him.”

“Then you must have had enough to close the circle,” Peter insisted. “It doesn’t work any other way, Stiles. And as for a _spark_ of magic- no such thing exists. Any amount of magic manifests as a whole in a human. There are different types; druids use earth magic, warlocks work in runes, witches practice through alchemy. Any one of those can manipulate mountain ash, as well as anything else in their particular class, but there’s no such thing as a _just a spark.”_

Stiles scrunched his eyebrows.

“Well- then fine, whatever. I guess I’m a whole entire magic person. But the mountain ash thing definitely happened.”

Peter was already shaking his head no, and Stiles threw up his hands in frustration.

“Then how do you explain the warehouse!”

Peter pinched his lips.

“Perhaps you were mistaken about the amount of ash-”

The two replacement light bulbs that Peter had managed to find in his closet began to flicker, and the knives in the knife block rattled. Peter stopped talking.

Stiles took a deep breath, running a hand over his head, and hopped down from the counter.

“I need a break. I’m going to see my dad. I’ll be back later.”

And he disappeared.

Peter held his breath for a moment, tense, before blowing it out. Carefully, he closed the book in front of him and got up. He went into his room, to the locked trunk at the end of his bed, and took out a key. A minute later he was back in his kitchen, placing down an old black book with curling pages.

_Bestiary of the Undead_

Peter was undecided whether banishing Stiles’ ghost was a primary or secondary solution, but in either case he would be prepared.

* * *

Stiles stood in the sheriff’s office, looking at his dad as his dad looked at a map.

His eyes were red and the smell of stale coffee hung around him in a cloud.

“Dad,” Stiles whispered achingly.

The whisper didn’t matter. He could have shouted and the sheriff still wouldn’t have heard him. The only one who’d been able to hear or see him since his death was Peter.

When he’d died, there was no moment when Stiles wasn’t aware. There was fear, horror, and disbelief as Gerard brought the gun up to his head, and then pain, and then he was standing beside himself and Gerard.

In total shock, he’d watched Gerard load his body into the trunk of his car to give to Scott as a final warning: “Do what I say, or watch _all_ of your friends become corpses.”

Gerard never got the chance to deliver his message, though.

Stiles watched him crawl away and die in the woods, but no one else went after him. Not even Chris. No one looked for him, and no one looked for his car.

It was his desperation to keep anyone _(his dad)_ from finding his body that first gave him the motivation to try moving things. Much more easily than he’d expected, he dragged some nearby junked plywood and a rotting mattress to cover the car and hide it (and hopefully to prevent his death from becoming an irrefutable fact before he could fix it.)

Back in the station, Stiles watched a tremor run through his dad’s hand as he reached for his coffee cup again. It was empty. John stared inside the empty cup for a moment before collapsing into his chair, forehead in hands, breath hitching.

“Dad, no,” Stiles said, feeling near tears himself. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and turning to the door. Slowly, carefully, as if it were just caused by a loose hinge, Stiles opened the office door. He backed away when it caught the attention of Parrish.

“Aw, Sheriff,” Parrish said as he poked his head into the office.

John slowly pulled his head out of his hands, eyes red with exhaustion and tears that hadn’t quite fallen.

“We’ll find him,” Parrish encouraged. “If anyone’s going to pop up fine after going missing, it’s gotta be Stiles.”

“Yeah.” John sniffed, standing. He swayed a little.

“Woah there,” Parrish steadied him. “Maybe it’s time for you to get a little rest. You’re no good to the investigation like this, Sheriff.”

John glared, but didn’t refute him.

“Just a little nap.” Parrish guided him to a cot in the back of the room, easing him as he collapsed forward onto it. John’s eyes were already closing as Parrish slipped out, turning off the light behind him, and Stiles made a mental note to bring Parrish dinner for a month after he stopped being dead.

Stiles had to get back into his body soon.

* * *

Peter thought it wouldn’t be hard to banish Stiles, if it came to that. Well, the ingredients and spells weren’t hard. Trapping Stiles long enough for the banishment to work might be another story.

In any case, more of Peter’s attention was drawn by figuring out exactly what Stiles is, and what was holding him here. He had a gut feeling that the two were intertwined.

The tie that binds a spirit to earth doesn’t happen by accident. At least, Peter couldn’t fathom it happening by accident. So either Stiles had fallen victim to the infinitesimally small chance that he’d mistakenly created an iron-strong soul bond to a random person, or… someone else had created that soul bond without his knowledge.

The fact that Stiles had no idea what kind of magic he possessed led Peter to suspect the latter.

He rubbed his hand over his eye and glanced at the clock.

5:32 a.m.

Ugh.

Closing the book, he stood up and stretched before shambling toward his bedroom. He managed to strip off his clothes and put them in the hamper relatively neatly before rolling between the covers and closing his eyes.

“Nice duvet. Are these real feathers or is it synthetic?”

Peter’s eyes flew open as he let out a startled growl. Stiles lay next to him, no heat, no weight, no smell, and no sound. Except for the idiotic words, of course.

Peter huffed out an exasperated breath.

“Do you often invite yourself into the beds of strange men, Stiles?”

“You are literally my only possible social interaction dude, don’t make it weird.”

“Get out of my bed.”

“My body is decomposing right now, _you_ get out of bed.”

“Actually it’s probably still in rigor mortis.”

“Great! Let’s get me back into it before the bloat sets in.”

Peter sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“Stiles, I have been awake for nearly 24 hours. I’ve had to convince my nephew not to murder me for a second time, help your little crew of miscreants take care of lizard boy, and then research your frankly ridiculous existence as a ghost. I’m still getting over being recently dead myself. _I need to sleep.”_

Stiles’ expression said everything about how he felt about that.

“Look, we can’t do anything until we figure out what you are anyway,” Peter said, exhausted. “You’re capable of physical interaction, go research. I’m going to sleep.”

He closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes.

“And for your information, I’m no longer tied to Lydia, so if you kill me in my sleep then you’ll be all alone with no help for your miserable ghostly existence.”

He closed his eyes again and promptly fell asleep this time.

Stiles frowned at him for a moment before getting up and heading for the kitchen where the books were.

“- _For your miserable ghostly existence_ ,” Stiles mocked childishly, mumbling. “This _dumb apartment_ is miserable.”

Thinking of his father, he opened a book and looked at the table of contents, feeling lost.

He just didn’t have a lot of magic. He’d barely had enough to make the mountain ash do it’s thing.

He’d been so busy the last few weeks that he hadn’t really thought about what that meant, but it was weird, wasn’t it? The whole point of the mountain ash line was that it had to be complete. Had he just… conjured more without realizing it? That seemed like a bigger deal than “be the spark,” though.

Stiles rubbed his temple and wondered if ghosts could get headaches.

He flipped the book to page one and started reading.

* * *

When Peter got up just before 11, Stiles was still sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by the books Peter had left there. Stiles ignored him as he made coffee, not even bothering to look up from his book.

When Peter finally had his cup, he looked over Stiles’ shoulder and asked, “Any luck classifying your particular subspecies?”

“I don’t _fucking exist_ according to these goddamned books,” Stiles spat out, finally looking up at Peter, only to do a double take at his shirtless state. Peter took a sip of his coffee with a pointedly raised eyebrow. Stiles’ eyes flicked from his abs up to his face, and then quickly looked back at the book, rapping it with his knuckles and clearing his throat.

“I never did any of the things that supposedly magical kids do. I never accidentally grew plants, never accidentally levitated shit, never made backyard dirt soup that somehow was actually edible. I don’t remember feeling particularly connected to the fucking force or whatever. I was just a regular, annoying, ADHD kid.”

Peter mused over the lip of his mug.

“And we still don’t know what’s tying you here either.”

“I already told you, it’s my dad. It’s gotta be-”

“This isn’t a Patrick Swayze movie, Stiles. ‘Unfinished business’ isn’t enough to hold back the continuing tides of life and death. The bond that creates a ghost is deliberate and deep, and not accidental. It’s a soul bond.”

Stiles’ mouth hung open.

“But I’ve never-!”

“No, I doubt you have. Someone else must have, likely when you were young.”

A chill ran down Stiles’ spine at the idea that he was violated that way. That something so binding was done to him as a child. And then he remembered.

“You did that,” he accused sharply. “You did that exact same thing to Lydia.”

“No,” Peter said shortly and severely. “I did not. Even outside my right mind, I did not. First of all, Lydia is not a child. Second, I broke my tie with Lydia the moment I was resurrected. It was a short term connection for a single purpose. And third, while I… did not make the best choices regarding the entire process, _because of the aforementioned madness_ , I was at least honest about what I wanted from her. I’m determined to survive, Stiles. I don’t crave power for power’s sake, only the power to keep me and mine safe.”

Stiles stared at him long enough that Peter felt the urge to look away. He hated this feeling; the deep need to have even _one_ person believe in his motivations. To see him as something other than a monster to be used.

Eventually Stiles just shook his head and looked back at the book, eyes distant, clearly moving away from the subject. Peter wasn’t sure if he was grateful that the conversation was over, or upset that Stiles wasn’t convinced.

“Why would anyone create that kind of connection with _me?”_

Peter lightly shrugged a shoulder, setting down his mug.

“I don’t know. But if we find out what you are, it might give us a clue.” He frowned as he thought. “Neither of your parents ever communicated that they might be… different?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Dad, definitely not. Mom… I was pretty young when she first got sick. So… different could mean a lot of things, with her.” He brought his ghostly thumb up to his mouth to bite at his nail, eyes flicking to and away from Peter nervously. “...We could ask my dad.”

Peter looked at him in disbelief.

“Yes, I can see that going very well. ‘Hello Sheriff. I know where your missing son is. Right here, as a ghost. He’s dead, you see. I promise I wasn’t the one who killed him. Oh, and by the way, were you or your wife hiding any magical heritage from your child?’”

“Well obviously you’re not gonna ask like _that._ Don’t pretend like you’re not a master manipulator, Peter.”

Peter gave him a dry look.

“Yes, but I fear that interrogating the county sheriff for information regarding his missing son, especially before I even have all of my personhood documentation sorted out, may be beyond even my abilities.”

“How else are we going to figure out what I am?” Stiles yelled desperately. Peter’s jaw clenched even as he kept a wary eye out for flying objects.

“Did you look-”

“YES. Yes! I looked in everything you have out here, plus the message boards where I got some of my Kanima information, AND the worst parts of several wikis. Apparently I’m even fucking weirder than I thought.”

He folded his arms, staring at Peter hard.

“You have to talk to my dad.”

Peter crossed his own arms.

“I don’t _have_ to do a damn thing.”

Stiles took a deep breath. He had two choices here. He could do what he wanted to do, and let himself tear through Peter’s apartment, destroying everything and making his life hell until he helped- But Peter had already proven just how far he was willing to go for revenge, hadn’t he?

Stiles considered his second option.

“If you go talk to my dad and fix me, I’ll help you become an alpha again once I’m alive.”

Peter stilled.

After a beat, he said, “Who says I need your help with that?”

“Oh, so you bit Scott, the worst werewolf to ever werewolf, on purpose? That wasn’t a mistake you made in sheer desperation for a pack?” Stiles said with a roll of his eyes.

Peter’s mouth twisted.

“I’m not saying you need help killing another alpha or whatever,” Stiles continued. “You’re definitely capable of murder. But you need someone in your pack _before_ you become an alpha,” Stiles said confidently, ignoring any thoughts of what Scott would say when he came back in Peter’s pack. The only thing that mattered right now was that Stiles _came back._ “I also bet it would be a lot more convenient for you to have someone on your side who can manipulate mountain ash. After all, as soon as you become an alpha again, you’ll be in competition with Derek for the area. Derek doesn’t have Deaton, not really. If you have me, you have the power of mountain ash when he doesn’t. If you actually _really help_ me, you’ll also have another thing Derek doesn’t have: loyalty.”

Peter’s eyes were calculating as he tapped his finger on his arm.

“... You’re even more manipulative than I gave you credit for,” he said eventually, with a slight smile. “I’ll say it again, Stiles: I really do like you.”

Stiles sternly told himself to stop feeling flattered. This was a business deal.

Peter finally picked up his coffee again.

“We’ll go after I shower.” He frowned at his nails. “I’m pretty sure I still have gravedirt under there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have 14k of this done, and I _think_ I'm about halfway through? Idk. It's been a fucking batshit week and I'm unexpectedly homeschooling one of my kids starting Monday, while I try to do get my own schooling done, so who the hell knows what's gonna happen here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy here's another lil chunk

Peter knocked on the door of the sheriff’s house after Stiles checked to confirm that one of his deputies had finally insisted he go there for a shower and change of clothes. His hair was still wet when he answered the door. 

“...  _ Hale?” _

Peter let free a dazzling smile. 

“Peter Hale, yes. I’m surprised you remember,” he said amiably.  

John stared with his mouth open for a moment. 

“Yeah. Well, it’s hard to forget…” he trailed off, clearly unsure of how to finish that sentence in a delicate way. “I thought you were still in the hospital?”

“I’m recently back from a clinic in Europe, actually. They have some fantastic plastic surgeons over there.” He gestured vaguely to his entire left side. “Unfortunately they couldn’t do quite as much for my memory. I was actually hoping I could ask you a few questions about life… before?” He let just a hint of sorrow enter his voice, hoping that the pause wouldn’t put him over the top.

“Oh. Oh, uh- I’m-” the sheriff didn’t seem to know how to answer. “I’m in the middle of- my son is missing right now,” he said, clearly thrown off. 

“Oh my God!” Peter said, voice shocked. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stiles inside the house behind John’s shoulder, rolling his eyes at Peter’s reaction. “Is there anything I can do? Make calls, or missing posters, or something?”

“Missing posters,” John said, voice slightly distant. “Yeah, that would be good. Come in for a minute, I’ll get you some pictures, and if you’re up for it you can make up a poster to hang around town.”

“That sounds great,” Peter said, and stepped inside. 

The house was a bit of a mess. It was clear that the sheriff had thrown things down in a rush as soon as he’d gotten home. John disappeared up the stairs for a moment before returning with a box, Stiles trailing behind him and looking tense. 

Peter peered into the box as John started shuffling through the pictures, looking for the most recent ones. 

There didn’t appear to be any order to the box. John passed by pictures of himself and Claudia, clearly the newlywed days, and a few pictures of Stiles in middle school. One of Claudia during pregnancy, another of a pair of grandparents, a small version of Stiles blowing out three candles on a birthday cake-

Peter deftly reached out and snagged the picture. 

“I didn’t realize you were close with the veterinarian,” he commented lightly.

“Uh, yeah,” John agreed distractedly as he continued his search. “Claudia was closer to him than me. Never seemed capable of a straight conversation to be honest.” 

In the picture Deaton had a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, staring down at him with a slight smile as Stiles excitedly puffed at the candles. A moment from 13 years ago frozen in glossy ink. Peter looked up and made eye contact with Stiles as he discreetly tucked the photo away. 

“Okay.” John straightened, handing over four photographs taken within the last year. “If you could include those, and the number for the station, and my cell number.” He hurriedly scratched it onto a post-it and handed that over too. “Thank you so much, Peter.”

“No problem.” Peter hesitated a moment, gaze lingering on the Sheriff’s unshaven face and under eye circles. A glance back at Stiles’ tensely drawn face pulled the words from Peter’s mouth. “Take care of yourself, Sheriff. Stiles deserves to come home to his whole father, not just the parts that survived.” 

John stared at him for a moment before glancing away and nodding tightly. 

He led Peter to the door, but just before he could open it a knock came from the other side. Peter could see him getting more frazzled and exhausted with every rap of knuckles. As he opened the door, Peter glanced behind himself at Stiles, who had his eyebrows furrowed. 

The sound of a gasp caused him to turn back around and look out the front door. 

“Lydia,” John greeted tiredly. “What can I do for you?”

Lydia stared into the house, past John and Peter, straight at Stiles. 

“Holy shit, can she see me?!” Stiles asked Peter before turning back to Lydia. “Can you see me?!”

She continued to stand there with her mouth open until John became concerned. 

“Lydia, are you alright? Do you need help?” 

She shook her head violently. 

“No, no,” she finally said, clearing her throat. “I just wanted to see if I could help with the search for Stiles…” she trailed off, looking again at the bullet wound in Stiles’ forehead. 

John tried to follow her line of sight to see what she was staring at. 

“Maybe you should go home,” he said slowly, looking back at her from the empty room, “and call around from there. Just call everyone you know at school who would recognize Stiles and ask if they’ve seen him.” John looked around for a car, but only saw Peter’s. “How did you get here?”

“My mom dropped me off,” she said distantly. 

“I can give her a ride home, Sheriff,” Peter slid in smoothly. “It’s on the way to my apartment, and you need to get back to the station.”

John tensed as his urgency was renewed. 

“Lydia, are you okay with that? This is Mr. Hale, he’s going to make missing posters for Stiles.”

Lydia looked at Peter, and for a moment there was undisguised hate and fear before she shut it down. It was there and gone before someone as distracted as a father with a missing son could notice.

“Yes, that would be fine.” She adjusted her grip on her purse, and Peter noticed a taser sticking out of one end. An Argent special. 

He sneered quietly behind John’s back until Stiles elbowed him and said, “Shut up Peter.” 

Peter glanced back reproachfully, wanting to protest that he hadn’t said anything, but unable to with John still there.

“Alright, good. Could you-?” John gestured Peter out of the house and onto the front steps with Lydia, and then locked the door behind all of them before he hurried down to the cruiser. A moment later he was gone, and Lydia sat in the passenger seat while Peter started his own car. 

“Lydia, can you see me?” Stiles asked again insistently from the backseat. Lydia looked back at him, eyes drawn to the bloody hole in his head for another long moment. She nodded silently before turning back to Peter.

“This is  _ your fucking fault,” _ she hissed. 

“Actually Gerard did this,” Stiles volunteered, pointing to his forehead.

“Ger- No, I meant it’s  _ his _ fault that I can see you at all!” she screeched. 

Peter scoffed, pulling onto the road.

“I didn’t make you a banshee, darling, I just woke you up.”

Lydia whipped out her taser. 

“I don’t care if you’re driving, call me darling again and I will shoot you with 120,000 volts.” 

“I think she’s serious dude,” Stiles said unhelpfully from the back.

“The only reason I’m in this goddamned car,” she said, voice hard, “is because I’m getting  _ answers. _  What the  _ hell _ is a Banshee?” 

Peter shot an exasperated look at her and Stiles. 

“I did  _ not _ regain my life just to hand it over to the whims of teenagers.”

Lydia held up the taser threateningly, and Peter finally pulled off with a frustrated huff, out of sight on a private road. He turned off the car and faced Lydia, a long suffering look on his face.

“A Banshee is someone who can hear the whispers of death. Someone connected to, but not tangibly of the supernatural, which makes you impervious to things such as the werewolf transformation. There are other aspects that vary from Banshee to Banshee, but that’s the basics.”

Lydia clenched her jaw, grinding her teeth.

“Why did you bite me, then, if you knew I wouldn’t change?”

“I bit you as a back up plan, in case something went wrong. Something did, in fact, go very wrong, in the form of my nephew ripping out my throat. So I called on the tie I’d created with you through the bite to resurrect myself, thus awakening your Banshee heritage.”

“Resurrect  _ yourself? _ I think you mean get  _ me _ to resurrect you while making me think I was  _ losing my mind!” _ she yelled.

Peter actually looked chastised. 

“I do apologize for that.”

“APOLOGIZE??”

“Woah, woah, Lyds!” Stiles reached forward, sticking his hand between the other two in the front seat in an effort to prevent Peter from becoming a twice-baked ghost. “I get why you’re angry, okay?”

“Oh, angry doesn’t even  _ begin-” _

“-But could we focus on me for a minute,” Stiles finished firmly. “Because in case it hasn’t totally processed for you, I’m dead.”

Lydia flinched. 

“Yeah. And Peter is helping me undo that.”

Silence reigned in the car for a moment, until Lydia turned to face Stiles, deliberately shutting Peter out of the conversation as much as possible. 

“You can’t trust him, Stiles.”

Stiles drew a hand over his face, because the truth was that Peter’s motivations were simple, which made him one of the very few people Stiles  _ could _ trust. Self and pack. Even in madness, it had all been in the interest of self and pack. As long as Stiles could put himself in that same path, then he could trust Peter to act in  _ his _ interest. 

People who believe in their own moral code are susceptible to occasionally selfish choices as they feel they can justify them. It’s harder to predict when they will play Jesus and when they will play Judas. 

After all, Scott had his own moral code, and hadn’t he proven that exact unpredictability with Derek the night before?

No, in a strange way, Peter’s selfishness made him one of the only people Stiles felt safe with in his currently vulnerable state.

But he couldn’t explain all that to Lydia, so instead he said, “Who else do you know who knows how to raise the dead, huh?”

Lydia clenched her jaw, but didn’t make any claims to her own experience. 

“Peter was dead. He may have fucked up along his way to reversing that, but he  _ did reverse it. _ He can help.”

“Speaking of which-” Peter inserted himself forcefully back into the conversation, pushing Lydia out of the way to get in front of Stiles as he pulled the photo out. “What do you know about Alan Deaton? Do you remember Deaton being a friend of your mother’s, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged, a slight furrow to his brow. 

“Kind of? I dunno. He’s Scott’s boss. He’s kind of vaguely helped us out a little? He gave us mountain ash and ketamine that one time.”

Lydia let out a shocked sound.

“ _ Ketamine-?” _

Stiles glanced at Peter nervously before hurrying to say, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it didn’t work anyway.”

“Didn’t work on  _ wh-” _

“Anyway,” Stiles pushed forward, knowing he’d have to answer to Lydia’s pinched mouth eventually. “I know that he was around when I was young, but I don’t really remember  _ him. _ He stopped coming over when she got sick, so all I really remember is a vague, boring, tall person who wasn’t mom.” He frowned for a minute. “I think he babysat me a couple of times, though.” He frowned deeper. “At the clinic, which is weird now that I think about it. But maybe it was an emergency thing? Like, there was no one else to watch me, but Deaton had to work?” 

“Why not rely on the deputies to watch you, if you were going to be underfoot somewhere anyway?” Lydia questioned doubtfully. “A vet’s office barely seems less dangerous than the sheriff’s station.” 

Everyone was quiet for a moment as they thought.

“Well,” Peter drawled eventually, starting the car again. “I think it’s time we paid him a visit to find out.”

Stiles chewed on his ghostly lip for a moment, catching Lydia’s eye. 

“We can take you home,” he said. “You don’t need to stay for- for whatever happens next. You already had to go through this once, you don’t have to do it again.”

Lydia looked at him carefully for a minute before turning around in her seat and facing the windshield. 

“I came over to help your dad find you. He hasn’t found you yet, so I’m still helping.”

The rest of the drive was quiet.

* * *

 

The veterinary clinic was in full swing when they arrived, with a dog, two cats, and one iguana in the waiting room.

Peter strode toward the back without so much as a by-your-leave with Lydia following him briskly. The staff who tried to stop him to ask questions found themselves distracted when a waiting room ficus suddenly tipped over, spilling dirt everywhere. 

Stiles caught up to them just as they entered Deaton’s office, where he sat as his desk. 

Peter, Lydia, and Stiles walked in, and Deaton’s eyes went directly to Stiles. 

Peter saw the frozen eye contact between them and didn’t hesitate, leaping into the room to grab Deaton by the throat. Lydia gasped, but she wasn’t looking at Peter. Her eyes were darting rapidly between Deaton and Stiles, at something only she could see. 

“Now, Deaton,” Peter said casually. “I can only think of three reasons why someone would be capable of seeing the dead.” He flicked up clawed fingers on his unused hand as he counted off. “One, they’ve passed the veil themselves. Two, Banshee heritage. Or three, a soul bond to the dead person in question.”

Lydia took a step forward, reaching out into the air between Deaton and Stiles, still looking back and forth between them with her mouth open.

Peter pulled out the photograph to slap it down on Deaton’s desk before leaning in closer to his face. 

“Which of those could possibly be allowing you to see Stiles right now?”

Deaton sat still wordlessly. 

“What is this?” Lydia blurted, weaving her fingers through the air. 

“What is what?” Stiles asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the blank mask on Deaton’s face. 

“This- this current,” Lydia answered. She could hear whispers rushing like water. “It’s between you and Deaton. Flowing one way, away from you, toward him. I can see it, and hear it, but I can’t touch it.”

The lights in the room flickered, and everyone looked at Stiles. 

“It’s a soul bond,” he hissed. That feeling of violation returned full force, this time accompanied by a swell of rage at the person responsible.

A row of glass bottles on the back wall suddenly shattered, spilling their contents everywhere. 

A flicker of fear crossed Deaton’s face. 

“What strikes me as odd,” Peter said, blasé, “is why an adult druid with a place in a powerful pack would want to soul bond with an unremarkable child.”

Deaton continued to hold his silence. Stiles continued to stare back.

“I don’t particularly care why he wanted it, only that he did it,” he said. 

Stiles took a step forward, and for the first time Peter thought he looked the way one might expect a ghost to look. Furious, dark, and cold. 

He was beautiful. 

“Oh, I really do like you, Stiles,” Peter purred out, tightening his grip slightly on Deaton’s throat. “But I feel the need to remind you that we need him alive in order to return you to your body.” 

Lydia stood still in the middle of the room with her ear bent down, oblivious to everyone else. The rushing in her ears was getting louder, some whispers rising above others.

“It’s not a soul bond,” she said distantly. 

“What?” Stiles asked, thrown. 

“It’s not  _ just _ a soul bond. There’s something-” her voice cut off as she listened to the current that was still getting louder. “Ley mage,” she muttered. 

“Excuse me?” Peter said from behind the desk, incredulous. “Ley mage?”

“Ley mage?” Stiles repeated, still off beat.

Lydia nodded, closing her eyes as the rushing crested, overwhelming every other sense.

_ CRACK _

Peter suddenly flew backwards from Deaton and slammed into the wall, snapping his head back and creating a dent. The sound of hissing filled the room, snakes appearing where there had once been nothing between Deaton and everyone else.

The snakes lunged forward to attack, hooded faces vicious with long fangs. Stiles jumped on the desk, grabbing Lydia to yank her up behind him. One snake made an attempt at her ankle and just barely fell short. 

Peter was trapped against the wall, still dazed, but growling and tearing off the heads of three snakes at a time so loudly that Stiles barely heard the click of a door underneath it all. 

Deaton was gone, and the back door to the office was swinging closed. 

“Fuck,” Stiles bit out. “Peter!! I’m going after him!”

And without another word, Stiles disappeared from the office. 

He reappeared in the parking lot, but there was no trace of him. No man, no car, nothing. He swung around wildly, desperate for some clue of where the vet had gone, but he’d simply vanished. 

Furious, Stiles went back to the office. He looked at the writhing mass of scales and fangs, and clenched his fists. In an act born of pure instinct from rage, Stiles dropped to one knee and hit the floor with the side of his fists as hard as he could. A hollow bell sound rang through the room and the snakes disappeared as though they’d fallen through the floor. 

The only evidence that they’d ever existed were Peter’s hands still covered in blood, the bite marks torn through his pants, and the swelling visible in his legs. 

“What the fuck,” Lydia whispered faintly. 

Stiles’ mouth hung open, his eyes wide and looking at the floor in shock. 

“What the fuck,” he echoed.

Peter took a shaky step away from the wall and wiped his hands on a hanging lab coat. 

“Ley mage,” he said grimly before looking up directly at Stiles.  _ “You’re _ what’s the fuck.”

“I’m what’s the fuck,” Stiles repeated dumbly, tiredness and confusion in his tone. “Goddamnit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deaton, you motherfucker.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy here's a warning for a reference to Claudia's illness.

“I was under the impression that Ley mages were more of a theoretical concept than an actual type of magic user,” Peter called from the kitchen a while later, after having explained the bond situation to Lydia. He finished stirring his tea and brought it into the living room with the other two. “The idea is that there is a type of magic user who isn’t born with innate magic, but rather as a natural conduit for magic. Druids, witches, warlocks; they’re all born with the energy inside of them. They can use it however their heritage dictates, but they have to replenish the energy with rest and food, like physical energy. A ley mage could theoretically tap into ley lines directly and use that magic in any way they want without limit. Including object manifestation,” he said pointedly at Stiles, referring to the mountain ash. “Of course, the further away they are from ley lines, the less power they would have. But if one were living right on top of a ley line, or the convergence of several ley lines…” Peter trailed off, the implication clear.

“So why didn’t I ever, I don’t know, explode shit as a kid or whatever?” Stiles asked.

Peter took a sip of his tea before speaking.

“You probably did at one point, when you were very young. Toddler age most likely. I expect that’s when Deaton realized what you were, and bound himself to you in order to leech your abilities to use for himself.”

It crawled up Stiles’ spine, the idea of being used like that as a child. A natural, integral part of himself had been stolen through a man latching onto him like a parasite before he’d ever had a chance to defend himself. He shuddered a little.

Peter shot him a sympathetic look.

“My question,” Lydia said slowly, looking carefully at Stiles, “is why he stopped coming around once your mom got sick.”

The temperature in the room plummeted, and the words hung suspended in the mist of Peter and Lydia’s breath. Peter shivered once.

Stiles took a deep breath, the familiarity of the action helping even if it didn’t feel right with no lungs to accept the air. Gradually the temperature of the room raised again.

“A lot of people stopped coming over when Mom got sick,” he said eventually. “As she got worse she became more, uh… unreasonable. Violent. It was hard for people to watch. It doesn’t necessarily mean…” he drifted off, wondering where the line was for someone who was willing to shackle a child in order to cut out a portion of him for his own use. What was slow murder to a person like that?

He rubbed a hand over his forehead, fingers brushing the bullet wound. One thing at a time.

“The question is how do we get to him now?”

“And once we find him, how do we prevent him from tapping into your magic?” Peter added shrewdly.

“The current,” Lydia said. “The one I could see. It was only flowing one way, but do you think you could make it flow backwards? Like, back into you? If we could take away his magic… Wait.” She looked severely at Peter. “Do we need to wait for a specific date in order to raise Stiles? I had to wait for the worm moon with you.” Her gaze was suspicious, as if Peter was about to say _Yes, he can only be raised on the 35th of Septuary._

Instead, Peter said, “I needed the worm moon because I’m a werewolf. Stiles’ existence relies on an entirely different type of magic. He can be raised at any time, as long as both sides of the bond are there and we have a bit of family blood.”

“... We need my dad’s blood?” Stiles asked.

Peter waved his hand in a so-so motion.

“Blood would be good, but not completely necessary. Hair or fingernail clippings will work too, as long as we have enough.”

Stiles felt a wave of relief. He could get those from the bathroom trash can without alerting his dad. Peter looked sharply at him, sitting back in his seat.

“You really are determined for him to never know that you died, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Stiles said shortly. “Back to Lydia’s idea: how do I reverse the current?”

Peter sighed.

“I’ll pull some books.”

He got up and left the room, leaving Stiles and Lydia alone together.

After a beat, Lydia said, “You haven’t tried to hit on me once today.”

Stiles looked at her incredulously.

“Yeah, well. Last night you literally saved Jackson’s life with the power of your love, and I’m _dead_. In light of that, romance isn’t really something I’m thinking about.”

Lydia appraised him, considering his words.

“Jackson’s moving to London,” she said abruptly.

“Wait, what?” Stiles said, taken aback.

She nodded.

“With everything that’s been going on… well. His parents thought it was best, and Jackson didn’t fight them on it.” She took a deep breath. “Allison is moving to France for the summer too. She’ll be back, but until then…”

“Jesus. Shit, I’m sorry Lydia.” And he really was. Jackson was an ass, but he was an ass who loved Lydia in a way that she could accept, and Allison was her best friend.

“My point is that I’m going to need a friend in this, Stiles. Once we fix- everything,” she gestured to all of him, “as long as you’re still not thinking about romance, call me. We can…” she paused, and then sighed. “Talk about death stuff, I guess.”

“Oh you two are just the sweetest,” Peter drawled on his way back into the room. “More precious than puppies.”

“ _You_ wanna talk about puppies?” Stiles said with a raised eyebrow. “Because if that’s a topic open for discussion, I-”

Peter dropped the books on the coffee table with a loud _CLAT._

“Tick tock Stiles, the next two stages are active decay and skeletonization.” Peter tapped at an imaginary watch on his wrist.

Stiles scowled reproachfully at the reminder of his corpse, and instead of grabbing a book he said, “I need one of you to come with me to Scott’s.”

Peter’s eyes flashed in irritation.

“He can’t see or hear you, what could you possibly need from him?”

“He’s Deaton’s employee! He might know where to find him, and he’s gotta be worried too. I just want to check in with him.”

“You think he’s just going to give up Deaton’s location if he knows it?” Peter asked, somewhere between incredulous and amused. “When has Scott ever done anything useful?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.

“It’s to save my life. Or, you know, un-not-save it. Whatever, he’s my best friend, he’ll help us.”

Peter clenched his jaw.

“Have you already forgotten what he did to Derek last night?”

Stiles looked away, uncomfortable, fully aware of what a shit move that had been. Scott could have told Derek his plan rather than forcing him into it, could have just continued to replace with pills with placebos until the cancer took Gerard, could have done a thousand other things.

Instead he took away Derek’s bodily autonomy.

Took away his choice.

Like Deaton had done to Stiles.

“He was desperate,” Stiles plowed ahead, deeply committed to not following that train of thought right now. “We’ve all done shitty things when we’re desperate. Things like biting a sixteen year old, or kissing someone’s boyfriend for petty revenge, or, you know, stealing a police van and kidnapping a lizard boy-”

“I just want to point out that my mistake was nowhere near on the same level as those others,” Lydia inserted firmly.

“-but Scott and I have been best friends forever. He’ll help me.”

Peter looked at him shrewdly, and then sighed.

“It’s a waste of time, but I suppose I could drive you-”

“Uh, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Stiles said. “I was thinking Lydia should take me over.”

“She doesn’t have her car with her.”

“Nope, she sure doesn’t.” Stiles looked at him expectantly until Peter’s mouth dropped open.

“No, absolutely not!”

Lydia made an indignant noise.

“Oh, so you’ll trust me to resurrect you, but not drive your car?” she challenged him.

“Yes, exactly!”

Lydia’s face set in a determined moue.

“You owe me. You owe me _far_ more than this, but you can _start_ with this.”

Peter once again grimaced a little at the reminder of his own actions. As much as he didn’t regret them, he did regret that he’d caused anyone the same madness that gripped him for six years.

He reluctantly tossed his keys to her.

“If there is a single fleck of scratched paint or scuff of the leather, I will murder you both.”

“I’m already dead, dude,” Stiles reminded him. Peter glared.

“Then I’ll resurrect you to murder you again.”

Lydia ignored him, heading for the front door.

“Come on, Stiles. I bet we can get up to sixty before we hit the bump on ninth.”

The door shut behind her before Peter could say anything else.

* * *

Lydia knocked on the McCall’s front door and glanced at Stiles as they waited for an answer. She heard someone thundering down the stairs to a sudden halt, and the door swung open.

“Alli-! Oh.” Scott looked terribly disappointed for a moment before his expression brightened again. “Did Allison send you?”

Lydia looked at him as if he were crazy.

“No, I’m here because of Stiles. Allison _broke up_ with you, Scott.”

“Yeah, but-”

Lydia waved a hand, cutting him off.

“No, I don’t care about your delusions. We need to talk about Stiles.”

Scott scrunched his eyebrows.

“Did _he_ send you here? Why hasn’t he replied to my texts?”

Stiles stared at Scott with his mouth open, and Lydia huffed a frustrated breath out of her nose.

“Invite me in so I can _explain.”_ She waited expectantly.

“Oh, uh, sure.” He stepped back and allowed her in. She immediately went into the living room and stood there with a hand propped on her hip.

“I went over to the Stilinski’s to help with the search for Stiles-”

“Wait, what? He’s still missing?”

“Jesus Christ, Scott, he’s your best friend! How do you not know this?” she said, exasperated and tense as she glanced at Stiles, whose face was becoming more and more blank.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of Allison!!”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose.

“There is a line between romantic pursuit and harassment, Scott.” She sighed. “Look, what I’m trying to tell you is important, can you please focus?”

“I’m not harass-!”

“Stiles is dead.”

Scott stopped completely, mouth open and eyes wide.

“Wh-what?” he choked out.

“Gerard killed him.”

Scott choked on a breath.

“How- how do you know?”

“He told me. He’s still here, as a ghost, or spirit or whatever.” She looked at Stiles, as if she were trying to decide if the word fit, but then shook her head and turned back to Scott. “We’ve been trying to return him to his body, but we need to find Deaton.”

Scott looked completely blown.

“You talked to him? He’s dead?” he repeated dumbly.

Lydia nodded, feeling the beginnings of sympathy- until his next words.

“But ghosts aren’t real.”

At that, Stiles finally made a little frustrated sound and picked up the TV remote, chucking it at Scott’s head. He barely caught it in time, staring in astonishment.

“Tell him that the reason I set off the fire sprinklers in third grade was because he’d peed his pants and didn’t want anyone to know,” Stiles said sharply. “Everyone got soaking wet and had to go home, and I got suspended for two days.”

Lydia choked a little in surprise, trying to hold back a laugh, and repeated the story to Scott.

He went pink with the recognition of the story, and then pale with the realization that Lydia must be telling the truth.

“Is he here?” Scott whispered, looking around, spooked.

“Oh my God Scott, yes! He’s right there! Who do you think threw the remote?” She gestured to Stiles, who was still standing with his arms crossed next to the coffee table where the remote had lain.

“You can see him? Why can’t I see him?” Scott asked, clearly a little put out.

Lydia flipped her hair with forced casualness.

“I’m a banshee, apparently. Do you know where to find Deaton or not?”

Scott looked overwhelmed, like he was having trouble wrapping his head around the entire conversation.

“What do you need from Deaton?”

Lydia paused, glancing to Stiles who still had his arms crossed and an angry edge to his expression.

“Well, tell him his boss is a fucking monster!” he said said heatedly.

Lydia’s lips pinched.

“Deaton created some kind of bond to Stiles as a child. Apparently Stiles has a specific type of magic that Deaton can siphon-”

“Magic? Siphon?” Scott cut in, bewildered. “Stiles isn’t magic, he’s just human. And why would Deaton want Stiles’ magic, he has his own. What kind of bond are you even talking about?”

“If you’d stop interrupting me, maybe I could explain,” she answered with gritted teeth.

“But how do you even know any of this?” Scott pressed. “Stiles never said anything about it when he was alive.”

“Stiles is standing right the fuck here, even if you can’t see him,” Stiles shot back futilely, frustrated at being excluded from the conversation.

Lydia rubbed her forehead.

“Peter Hale-”

Stiles and Lydia knew instantly that she’d made a mistake. Scott’s expression was furious.

“Peter Hale is a lying murderer!! Whatever he told you, the opposite is probably true. I bet Deaton doesn't even have anything to do with this, he probably wants to know where he is for- for sick reasons.”

“Scott-” Lydia said tiredly.

“No, Lydia. You don’t know him like I do-”

“You’re right, I probably know him _better_ than you do,” she cut him off sharply. “And Peter Hale is a selfish, manipulative, cunning bastard, but he’s not lying about this. I heard and saw the connection between Deaton and Stiles myself, Scott. We need Deaton if we’re going to help Stiles.”

Scott was shaking his head.

“No, I’m not telling you where he is just so Peter can go murder him too.”

The lights flickered and the temperature of the room dropped.

“You _asshole,”_ Stiles hissed. “This is my _life!”_

“Scott,” Lydia pressed. “We cannot get Stiles back without Deaton.”

“No,” Scott insisted. “I’m not giving up Deaton to Peter like that. If- if Stiles is already dead,” his voice was devastated but firm, “then I can at least make sure Deaton doesn’t die too.”

The temperature dropped by few more degrees, Stiles’ expression darkening further. Lydia shuddered, wanting to back out of the room.

Stiles went to an end table and picked up a pen. Scott watched in astonishment as the pen scribbled out a message on a post-it note by an unseen force.

_If I don’t come back it’s going to kill my dad. You know it will. Where is Deaton?_

Scott read the note and clenched his jaw.

“You don’t have any proof-”

The pen started scribbling furiously again.

_Lydia just told you what she saw. Deaton bonded himself to me, WITHOUT MY CONSENT BTW, and I need him to be alive again._

Scott’s face creased in distress.

“He must’ve had a good reason to do it, dude. Like- I don’t know. Maybe it was for your health or something?”

Stiles had to suppress the urge to throw something again.

 _Yeah maybe whatever. The point is that I still need to know where he_ is.

Stiles didn't believe that for a second after the way Deaton behaved at the clinic, but if it would get Scott to give up his location...

Scott hesitated before replying.

“I’ll take you to him as long as Peter doesn’t come.”

“Peter’s the only one of us who actually knows the resurrection ritual,” Lydia pointed out. “And if Deaton has been siphoning magic from Stiles through a non-consensual bond, which seems very likely, then why would we expect him to just give Stiles his body back willingly? Stiles can’t demand that he break the bond like this. Stiles has no control whatsoever like this.”

“Deaton wouldn’t do that! I’m telling you, this is just a lie so that Peter can kill Deaton!”

Stiles lost it again and chucked the post-it notes this time. Scott barely dodged it, and set his jaw, stubborn.

“If- if that’s really you, Stiles, then you know I won’t exchange one life for another.” He paused, gathering himself for a moment. “If you’re really dead,” he said, grief in his tone, “then maybe it’s just your time, dude.”

Stiles let out a frustrated yell and pushed Scott, sending him flying across the room. He was filled with anger, betrayal, and fear. _Scott,_ his brother, who refused to believe them. _Scott,_ who Stiles had guided through his first days as a werewolf, hadn't even noticed he was still gone.  _Scott,_  the reason Stiles was kidnapped, beaten, and executed in the first place. 

“Stiles!” Lydia yelled. Stiles’ head whipped around at her, eyes cold and furious.

“We’ll find him,” she said firmly. “This isn’t going to help.”

“No? You sure about that?” Stiles shot back. “At the very least it’ll make me feel better.”

“He’s still your best friend,” she tried.

Stiles scoffed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

After one last bitter look at Scott, Stiles disappeared from the house. Lydia let out a long breath in the sudden silence.

“You’re making a mistake, Scott. I saw it. I _felt_ it. You’re protecting the wrong person.”

Scott wiped blood from his lip, picking himself up off the floor.

“I think it’s pretty clear that I’m not. If that’s really Stiles, then whatever’s left isn’t- isn’t natural. Don’t go back to Peter, Lydia. He ruined my life and he’ll ruin yours too.”

Lydia sighed.

“You’re too late, and that warning would have been just as unhelpful before it happened anyway. Just think about who you’ve chosen here, okay? And call me if you change your mind.”

When she went out to the car, she was surprised to find Stiles sitting in the passenger seat, arms crossed, face on the devastated side of blank. She started the car and pulled away.

She could barely stand the silence from Stiles.

After a few minutes she quietly asked, “Do you want to go get french fries and hide them under Peter’s back seat?”

Stiles’ managed to force up a corner of his mouth.

“Nah. I’m trying to get alive, not killed twice.”

Lydia shrugged, the shade of a smile briefly crossing her face, and continued driving back to Peter’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scott. Scotty. You are only allowed so many bad decisions in a day Scottjamin. Please consider your choices Scottbert.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaddup I'm Jared, I'm 19, and I never fucking learned how to update fic.

They read and researched for hours, but nothing came up. No hint of where they might find Deaton, no mention of how to reverse the flow of a magical bond. Stiles grew more and more tense with every passing hour, his confrontation with Scott ringing in the back of his mind. 

When Peter surfaced from his latest dead end, he realized that he and Lydia were the only ones in the living room. He got up and stretched, going around the table to avoid getting too close to Lydia or her taser, and went into the kitchen only to find Stiles in there, sitting on the counter and staring blankly at the cabinets. 

Peter paused slightly on his way to a cupboard before continuing. 

“I’m afraid there’s not much in here to haunt,” he drawled, beginning to make another cup of tea.

Stiles said nothing.

It was disconcerting; death hadn’t stopped him from jabbering, but one conversation with Scott McCall had. Peter once again briefly reflected on just how deep his madness must have been to bite such an idiot.

“Deaton can’t go far,” Peter said offhandedly. “A soul bond restrains distance betweens pairs. He’ll have to stay roughly within Beacon County or risk being incapacitated.” 

That finally stirred a response from Stiles, even if it still lacked his usual energy. 

“Restrains distance?” he asked, glancing at him before going back to staring at the cabinets. 

“Mm-hm. It’s very uncomfortable to be separated from your soul bound, or so I’ve heard.” He mused quietly as he dumped out his tea diffuser. “I have no idea how that would affect you, since you’re technically dead, but I think it’s safe to assume that Deaton would still feel it.”

“What kind of ‘uncomfortable’?” 

“Migraines and nausea, mostly. Chest pain and arrhythmia as well.”

_ “Arrhythmia? _ Are you  _ kidding me?” _ Stiles burst out suddenly, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the counter. “What is even the fucking  _ point _ of this bond? Why would someone make something like this!!”

The countertop creaked under Stiles’ hands, and the microwave rattled. Peter glared, his wariness of all that angry power having worn off several hours ago. 

“Stop it, I like this butcher block,” he chided. “The soul bond was created to share power, essentially. Usually, it’s an equal balance. If one needs a boost, then the other can give it, and vice versa. It can help win fights, reduce healing time, or even extend the lives of bonded pairs. It was never intended to be done unwillingly. Deaton found a way to twist it, or more likely found the ritual of someone else who twisted it and then copied them.” 

Stiles stared harder at the cabinetry for a moment. 

“I can’t believe Scott chose him over me,” he said quietly. 

_ McCall is a moron _ sat on the tip of Peter’s tongue, coated in dismissal, but he held the words back. Stiles had been left for dead by someone he considered family- _ pack- _ and that was something Peter could painfully relate to. 

“No, Scott didn’t choose you,” he said, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “But I did.” 

Stiles looked up, some naked emotion on his face that Peter was ill equipped to handle. 

“Lydia did as well,” Peter continued, taking another sip of his tea to avoid looking back at Stiles. “We may not be the ones you thought you’d have, but you do have us.”

Stiles continued looking at Peter, a little stunned. In the last 30 or so hours, he’d been shot in the head, turned into a ghost, and discovered that he was some kind of magical being; and somehow  _ still _ the most surprising thing that had happened in that time frame was Peter Hale becoming the most stable person in his life. 

“I found something!” called Lydia from the living room. Stiles immediately disappeared from the kitchen and reappeared next to her, startling out a little yelp. 

“Don’t  _ do _ that!” she scolded. 

“What is it? What did you find?” Stiles demanded. 

“I think I found the ritual that Deaton must have used to bind you- and actually, I think it’s two rituals that he combined.” Stiles hovered over her shoulder, trying to read, but found the Latin too complicated for his basic knowledge.

“Does it say how to undo it?” Stiles asked desperately. Peter was behind her other shoulder now, scanning the page, lines in his forehead growing more prominent the further he read. 

“It’s not like most soul bonds,” Lydia said with a frown. “I mean, that’s what it says anyway. I have no way of actually knowing if that’s true or not-”

“The book came from a reputable author,” Peter interrupted with a murmur, moving to stand next to her for a better look at the book.  _ “The binding may only be undone by the binder,” _ he read out loud with a frown. Though he'd expected it, disappointment lanced through Stiles. “This ritual would take a large, extended amount of power," Peter continued. "Certainly more than a druid has.”

Lydia nodded grimly. 

“That’s why I think it was combined with this second one.”

She flipped the page, and this time even Stiles’ limited knowledge of Latin was enough. 

_ Dicio. _

_ Valetudo. _

_ Dementem. _

_ Mort.  _

A spell for drawing energy from a living creature over a period of time; a spell to cause madness. 

“He did it,” Stiles said numbly. “He killed my mom.” Lydia and Peter both looked at Stiles apprehensively, but he was still staring at the book. “He killed my mom so he could use me.”

“Well,” Peter said lightly after a beat of silence. “We’ll use him to resurrect you, and then kill him back.”

Stiles wanted nothing more. Every wisp of being was screaming for the bloody death of this man, so violently that it startled him. He looked at Lydia, whose lips were pinched and eyes wide. 

“I’m not going to advocate for murder,” she said slowly. “But I also wouldn’t stop it. It’s not my decision." 

Stiles, still in shock, ran a hand down his face. 

“Does it say anything about reversing the flow of the bond?”

Lydia shook her head reluctantly.

“To be honest, I don’t even think this is the whole ritual for either component. The author is pretty clear that they think it’s is a bad idea, and that the information should only be used academically. There’s nothing on how to break it.”  

It was just- too much. Or too little. Stiles suddenly felt choked by the possibility that he might be a ghost forever. He’d been so focused on regaining his life that he’d refused to even contemplate the idea that he might fail. 

Would he be able to move on once Deaton died? Or would he be stuck here forever, tied to the parasite who continued leaching from him even after death? Bound with the one who killed his mother? 

Trapped without any true sensation, unseen, unheard-

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, breathing faster and faster, unable to get the relief of air reaching his lungs because his lungs  _ weren’t fucking there. _ Stiles knew he was spiraling, knew the pattern, but all he could think was  _ Great, I’m going to be a ghost forever and I don’t even get a break from panic attacks. _ Distantly, as if through a tunnel, he heard the others talking above him.

“Stiles, breathe-”

“He doesn’t have a body, what good is breathing going to do?”

“Then what would you suggest for a ghost having a panic attack, jackass?!” 

“Move out of the way.” Stiles sensed someone crouching in front of him. “Stiles, everything is going to be fine. Well, not  _ fine _ . Most of the people you associate with are idiots and you still have two years of high school to finish, and both of those situations are quite dismal. But I don’t think you’re panicking about either of those things right now.”

Stiles latched on to the sound of Peter’s voice, a tinge of incredulity breaking through the panic. 

“We’re going to resurrect you, and we’re going to break the bond, alright Stiles? We have to in order for my plans to work, and my plans never fail.”

“You- you died last time,” Stiles managed to say, feeling the need to point it out. 

“Yes, but only  _ after _ my plan succeeded,” Peter said, as if that should have been obvious. 

Stiles breathed a little more deeply, calming enough to open his eyes. Peter looked back, hands extended toward Stiles but not touching. His forehead was creased with a worry line. Stiles was distantly struck by the desire to reach out and smooth it.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, voice still shaky. 

Lydia stood behind Peter, wearing a similarly worried expression. 

“Are you alright?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “I mean, aside from the fatal gunshot wound. I’m done freaking out.” He let out a little self deprecating laugh. 

Lydia still looked worried, but she nodded. 

“I need to go home soon, at least for a little while. And maybe we should all take a little break.” 

Stiles agreed, relieved. A few minutes later Peter left to take Lydia home, reluctantly parting with most of his books on Banshees. 

Stiles went to check on his dad, unsure of whether he was glad that he'd avoided the body aches that usually came after a panic attack. Everything felt less real without physical proof. The sheriff was still at the station, flagging another map with two of his deputies. 

Stiles noticed a half eaten microwaved vending machine burrito on his desk, along with a bag of potato chips. 

“Godddd,” he groaned. Between the stress of his missing son and the shit garbage he was eating, John was going to undo all the progress Stiles had made towards his heart health in the last year. Checking to make sure no one was looking, Stiles dumped the bag of potato chips in the trash, putting some crumpled papers on top to hide it before returning the empty bag to his dad’s desk. He adjusted it to put everything back exactly as he’d found it, and as he did, he found himself wondering why it was so easy for him to touch and move things. Why did he affect his environment without even trying sometimes? All movement took energy. Where was he pulling the energy from? Was he still tapping into the ley lines as a ghost... or was he pulling from the current between him and Deaton?

After taking one more glance at John, Stiles went back to Peter’s apartment just as he returned from dropping off Lydia. 

He took one look at Stiles’ face and asked, “What? What did you figure out?”

“Nothing, yet. When I move things around, do you think I’m drawing power from the ley lines, or from my connection with Deaton? And if I'm not taking it from Deaton, do you think I _could?_ ”

Peter considered him thoughtfully. 

“I assumed the ley lines... physical interaction from a non corporeal being takes a huge amount of energy." He tapped his fingers on his hip before grabbing his keys. "There’s only one way to find out for sure.” 

And that’s how a werewolf and a ghost found themselves on a short impromptu road trip to the middle of nowhere at 10 p.m. There wasn't even a punchline.

“Thirty miles away is about the furthest we can get from any ley lines while staying in the county. As I said before, I’ve never seen any practical evidence or information on ley mages, so we’re flying blind here. We’ll just have to see if you feel any different.”

Stiles looked out the window and nodded distractedly, on board with the plan but suddenly preoccupied by the fact that he had helped kill the man sitting next to him. The same man who was now doing quite a lot to ensure Stiles could reverse his own death. Stiles still thought he’d earned the initial killing, but now-

“Thanks,” Stiles said softly, looking at the outline of Peter’s face reflected in the dark passenger window before turning to him. “You really didn’t get your life back just to hand it over to the whims of teenagers, so thanks for this. For all of it.”

Peter was quiet for a beat before responding, “You made a promise to me, and I’m expecting you to keep it. I can’t take back the land by myself. It’s in my best interest to help you.”

Stiles smiled. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

Peter pulled onto the shoulder a few minutes later. With the headlights turned off, it was nearly pitch black by the road with no other cars approaching. 

“Well?” he said. “Move something.”

Stiles reached up and tried to flip the visor down, but his fingers slipped through it with barely any resistance. It was uncomfortably startling. He tried again with more focus but no more success. He glanced at Peter. 

“Alright, so you’ve been tapping into the ley lines. Good to know. That might mean there’s been less energy for Deaton to use. But can you pull directly from him? Empty his tank, so to speak?”

Stiles considered for a moment. There wasn’t much to feel as a ghost. No wind, no warmth or cooling. So far he’d only felt the resistance of objects to be moved, but he focused inside himself, looking. 

There was a light tugging sensation in his core. There was constant pressure to the pull, making it background noise easily ignored. He concentrated on pulling back on it, like a tug of war, and found it came easily. 

He reached back up to the visor, and flipped it down. Then he opened the mirror, drumming his fingers against it for good measure.

20 miles away, Deaton’s wards flickered. 

* * *

Stiles bounced in his seat on the way home, running his mouth about different plans and what he was going to do first when he had a body again and questioning whether there would be scavenger bugs in his clothes when he got back into his body or- 

“Does the magic of resurrection chase them away? Do bugs know about magic? Does it bother them? Were  _ you _ covered in bugs when you came back?”

His enthusiasm was infectious and had Peter smiling as well, though their work wasn’t over yet. 

The happy chatter stopped abruptly when Stiles recognized Derek’s car across the street from Peter’s building. He was leaning against the driver’s side just outside the circle of a street light, looking like the cover of a 70’s crime novel. 

“We need to talk,” he called out. 

“What now?” Peter sighed. 

“Inside.”

“What  _ exemplary _ manners you have, dear nephew,” Peter drawled, gesturing him up into the apartment anyway. 

As soon as Peter shut the door behind them, Derek bit out, “There’s an alpha pack in town.”

“Oh Lord,” Peter said, abruptly exhausted. “Can I please just handle one of your messes at a time?”

Derek scowled, but next to him Stiles had zoned in, interested.

“Alpha pack? What’s an alpha pack?”

“A pack of alphas,” Peter answered, ignoring the confused look on Derek’s face. 

“... Yeah, that’s what I said,” Derek said flatly. 

“A pack of alphas? How does that even  _ work?” _ Stiles asked Peter.

Peter gave him a deadpan look and said, “Viciously.”

Derek stared at Peter, wondering if he hadn’t come back to life insane again after all. 

“Who are you talking to?”

“Stiles.” Without pausing to explain, Peter continued, “I’m tired, Derek, and I’m going to bed.” 

Peter did in fact start heading towards bed, but Stiles yelled, “Wait! No! Ask him how he knows there’s an alpha pack! Is my dad in danger??”

“Ask him yourself,” Peter threw over his shoulder as he put away his shoes in the closet. 

Derek looked completely lost. 

“Stiles? Isn’t he still missing?”

“You can write,” Peter said, ignoring Derek and still talking to Stiles. “Go get the notebook next to the lamp.”

Stiles huffed, but went to get the notebook anyway. 

Derek glanced at his uncle, wary, and then at the lamp in the corner only to freeze when the notebook next to it started to hover, a pencil coming up by itself to start scrawling. Derek yelped. 

“What-!!”

“I told you. Stiles.” 

Derek still looked confused and spooked, and Peter took pity on him. 

“He’s dead, Derek. His ghost showed up in my apartment late last night, and we’ve been working towards getting him back in his body all day. I’m tired. Answer his questions and then see yourself out.”

Derek watched Peter close the door to his bedroom, only to turn around and have the notebook shoved in front of his face, hovering. 

_ How do you know there’s an Alpha Pack? What even is that? Is my dad in danger? _

“It’s-” Derek couldn’t help feeling both leery and like an idiot. “It’s a pack made up of alphas. Your dad probably isn’t in any more danger than the rest of the time.” His mouth turned down a little at the corners. “No, the alpha pack definitely wants something from me and the other wolves.”

He paused as the notebook slowly lowered while Stiles thought. 

“Are you really dead?” Derek eventually asked into the silence. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and brought the notebook back up, muttering, “No, I just like separating from my body and leaving it in the trunk of a car for fun.” On the paper, he wrote:

_ Yes. Gerard shot me in the head point blank. He wanted to send a message to Scott.  _

Guilt pierced through Derek. More Argent death. He swallowed, thinking.

“But how? How are you still here? You’re just human.”

_ That’s what I thought too, but apparently there’s a whole thing with Deaton, who by the way is a nasty fucker and if you have information on his whereabouts I would love to hear them. _

Derek went a shade paler. 

“Deaton? No. My mom loved Deaton. He wouldn’t-” He was cut off by the renewed scratching of the pencil. 

_ Yeah dude, and we all thought Matt was a harmless creep with a camera, and that Jackson was just a jerk with an inferiority complex, and that Peter was permanently dead. None of that was true, so maybe we should just set aside expectations for a while, alright? I’m not gonna write out all the bullshit here, but trust me. Gerard killed me and I need Deaton to resurrect myself.  _

Derek swallowed loudly. He thought the extra addition of guilt shouldn’t have weighed so heavily on him, considering how many other deaths were on his hands. 

But if there was a chance this one could be undone...

“I know where to find Deaton.”


	5. Chapter 5

The notebook and pencil suddenly dropped to the ground. Derek’s head swiveled around, trying to find some evidence of what had happened.

“What?! Hello?” Derek called, tense. “Stiles??”

There was a sudden yelp from behind Peter’s door.

“Alright! Al _right_ , let me- Stiles, Jesus Christ, I need pants!!”

A moment later Peter came stumbling out of his bedroom, still looking exhausted and also significantly grumpier than he had before. He rubbed an eye and waved a hand like he was batting away a fly as he headed to the kitchen.

“Go get some of your dad’s hair or nail clippings. We can’t do anything without that, and _no one_ is getting resurrected unless I get some coffee anyway.”

Derek stared at Peter as he grumpily made coffee, looking more like his uncle from six years ago than Derek could deal with. He stalked over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

“Did Deaton really do something to Stiles?” he asked, speaking at the opposite wall of the living room.

Peter poured out his coffee into a huge mug, filling it to the top.

“Yes. You can ask Ms. Martin about it if you don’t believe me, although I’d clear it with Stiles first as it’s a personal matter.”

“Ms.- Lydia? What does Lydia have to do with anything?”

“She’s a Banshee. She can hear things you couldn’t imagine. She also dropped you with a single puff of air, so you may want to consider giving her the obeisance she probably deserves.”

Peter took a long draw from his mug, letting silence reign. Eventually Derek broke it.

“Deaton said I shouldn’t trust you.”

Peter snorted.

“If I recall, you were the one who murdered me.”

Derek gritted his teeth.

“That wasn’t murder, that was putting down a wild animal.”

“They don’t generally rip out the throats of wild animals. It’s considered inhumane. So tell me Derek, which of us was the beast?”

Derek didn’t speak again after that, and Peter went into his room to change into something more suitable.

He was just pulling a shirt over his head when Stiles re-appeared next to his bed. He popped his ghostly lips and gave a wolf whistle, and then froze.

Peter also froze for a second, and then slowly finished pulling the shirt on. When he looked up, he saw that Stiles’ eyes were wide, as if he’d just realized he’d made a pass at a werewolf nearly twice his age. There was a clear moment of deliberation, and then an obvious decision to lean in.

“Nice abs.”

Peter had his own moment of deliberation, balancing Stiles’ age and the possible future pack bond between them.

His conclusion was unfortunate, but necessary.

“No.”

A moment of silence was held for the tragic death of Stiles’ brief seduction.

“What should I do with my dad’s hair?”

“Give it to me, I’ll hold on to it. We need to talk to Derek about how many of his puppies he’s willing to lend us.”

“Lydia’s going to want to be involved,” Stiles warned. “I’m pretty sure she’s done being left out of all the supernatural shit. And let’s be honest, she’ll probably be more helpful than everyone else anyway.”

Peter hmm’d in agreement.

They exited Peter’s bedroom together to see Derek eyeing Peter with caution.

“Is he back?” Derek looked at the air around Peter warily, and Stiles took the opportunity to dash over and flick him in the ear.

Derek slapped a hand over it and scowled toward the side where he’d been flicked while Stiles snickered.

“You know, he’s not so bad. It’s going to be a bummer when we have to take the territory from him,” Stiles mused.

Peter looked at Derek appraisingly, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“We’re going to want more hands. Where’s the Lahey boy?” he asked Derek.

“Back at the depot.” He looked around again, and then apparently gave up on trying to see Stiles and looked back at Peter. “What about McCall?”

Stiles’s expression turned to stone.

“Perhaps we should leave the veterinarian’s apprentice out of this,” Peter said delicately, directing his comment at Derek.

“What about Boyd and Erica? Are they healed enough to help?” Stiles asked.

“Boyd and Erica?” Peter questioned, eyes flicking from Stiles to Derek. “Aren’t those the two that deserted the pack, playing the teenage runaways?”

“Yeah, but-” Stiles stopped, looking at Derek with a furrowed brow. “They got caught by Gerard. They were in the basement with me until I got them free. Old Man Bigot caught me and killed me like two minutes later, but they took off just in time. I was sure they were headed back to you.”

Peter repeated Stiles’ announcement to Derek, whose face got darker with every word.

“They didn’t come back,” he said shortly.

Stiles looked uneasy.

“I’m like, really, _really_ sure that they were going to,” he said quietly. “If they didn’t come back, it wasn’t because they were just that determined to stay away from Derek.”

Peter tapped his lips with a crease in his brow before dropping his hand.

“It’s something to worry about later. We have a dark druid to catch and a resurrection to facilitate.”

Stiles texted Lydia with Peter’s phone on the way, and they picked up her and Isaac. Isaac looked as if he didn’t really believe anything anyone had said, but was going along with it anyway because Derek told him to. Lydia just looked determined. And possibly a little nauseated.

Derek directed them up a seemingly random back road that led to a densely forested area, and Peter told everyone to shut up so that Stiles could concentrate.

Stiles began pulling energy from the place he’d felt earlier. He used it to move things around the car, fucking with seat belts and visors, using his constant fidgeting to do things that were small, yet required an immense amount of energy to cause a physical effect from a non-physical being.

By the time they reached the gate in the wooded area surrounding Deaton’s property, he could feel the strain it was putting on the opposite end of the connection. He sensed the wards just past the gate, yanking hard enough on the bond that the wards became useless just as they crossed over the border. For the first time, he felt a responding tug on the other end, clearly angry, but weak.

Stiles gave a little slack to the bond, offering Deaton the illusion that he’d been successful in taking back some control. The tugging stopped.

Moron.

Derek silently indicated where to stop the car, and they continued toward the house on foot as quietly as possible. They were nearly to the house when Peter halted over a line of mountain ash.

“Deaton’s going to notice as soon as that’s broken,” he whispered. “If we want to use the advantage of surprise, this is it.” They all looked toward the house, still about 25 yards away. Peter looked toward Derek expectantly, and Derek nodded tightly.

Lydia broke the line, and Derek immediately took off, sprinting toward the house and kicking in the door. The second the door was open, Stiles felt a pull on his side of the connection. Panicked, he snapped himself to Derek and reached out to yank him out of the way. A blast clearly intended to blow through his chest burned his shoulder instead, bringing a shout of pain and a grimace.

Furious, Stiles pulled back on the connection even harder, and inside the house there was the sound of a pained cry.

A look inside showed Deaton on his knees, one hand clutched to his stomach as he reached for a bottle sitting next to him with the other.

Stiles gave another pull on the connection, using the energy to run in and kick the bottle out of his hand.

Derek was right behind him, grabbing Deaton by the throat as his singed skin healed. Peter was next, checking out the bottle Stiles had kicked away.

“Kanima venom,” he announced. “You just go around taking whatever you want from boys, don’t you Alan? Well, I suppose you went to the effort of procuring it. We shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

And with that, Peter picked up the bottle, opened it, and poured a few drops on Deaton.

He froze, paralyzed.

“You can let go now, Stiles,” Peter murmured.

Stiles shakily took a breath, letting go of the energy he’d been holding back from Deaton, and tapping back into the ley lines more naturally.

After a moment, Stiles quietly said, “Let’s fix this.”

Peter nodded, and they left the house.

* * *

Stiles led them to the hidden car and Peter pried open the trunk, causing nearly everyone to retch with the smell.

He stared down at Stiles’ body for an indeterminate moment, face expressionless. Stiles looked at Peter from the side, unable to guess his thoughts. Eventually he took the hair that Stiles had given him and walked over to where Derek and Isaac were holding Deaton. He took out a pocket knife and none-too-gently stabbed him in the arm, pulling the wound open and allowing his blood to dribble onto the ball of hair, and then walked back over to the trunk to carefully place it in the mouth of Stiles’ body.

“Gross,” said Stiles, grimacing.

“Hush,” reprimanded Peter. He then murmured a few words in a language Stiles didn’t recognize before falling expectantly silent.

Stiles felt a tug. He stumbled forward and allowed himself to be swept along with it. There was a moment of confusion, with no upside down or right side up and he was being squeezed too tightly, squeezed into a shape that couldn’t possibly contain everything that made up _Stiles_ , and then-

_Pop_

He gasped in a gulp of air and immediately choked on it, coughing and wracking his body with convulsions. Still coughing, he sat up and looked out of the trunk at everyone, wide eyes staring back at him.

“Holy fuck,” he said, coughing again one more time. “Jesus Jiminy Christ! No.”

A breath of relief blew from everyone, as assured as they could be in the moment that Stiles was back in his body and still Stiles.

Stiles climbed out of the trunk on wobbling legs, unsteady but determined. It took three strides in total to bring him to his goal, where he hauled his fist back and punched Deaton as hard as he could. Stiles watched his head snap to the side, looking at him in disgust.

Deaton, however, wasn’t looking back. Wasn’t looking at anything, really. As Stiles’ rapid resurrection continued to suck up energy, Deaton’s breath got faster and weaker, his skin going ashen.

“It’s up to you now, Alan,” Peter said gravely. “You know that the strength of Stiles’ pull on your connection could kill you. Break the bond now, and you might survive. Keep the bond, and I’ll banish your spirit within hours.”

Deaton’s eyes flickered to Peter and away, panic clearly gripping him as tiny sounds left his mouth. There was silence, and then Stiles gasped, bringing a hand up to his stomach and screwing up his face as he curled over a little.

Peter swept over, placing a hand on his neck.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles hurried to say, although his face still had a strange expression. “It’s just- it feels weird. Kind of like- like static in my gut?”

Peter looked over to Lydia with a raised eyebrow. She shook her head.

“It’s quiet. Whatever he’s feeling is all him.”

Reassured that Deaton hadn’t tried to pull any last minute stunts, Peter looked at Stiles questioningly. Upon receiving his nod, slightly hesitant but approval all the same, Peter let go of Stiles and leaned down, close to where Deaton was still breathing rapidly and getting colder.

“Good choice, Deaton. Now you can die with a clean conscience.”

And Peter ripped out his throat.

Derek and Isaac let go of him in shock, Isaac stumbling backwards. Derek immediately growled at Peter, eyes glowing red.

“PETER! You’re _not_ the alpha! That was not your choice to make!” he roared.

“No,” Stiles said coldly, “and it wasn’t your choice to make either.”

Everyone glanced uncomfortably at Stiles before looking away. Peter smiled smugly and Stiles elbowed him in the side.

“Maybe don’t look like the cat that got the canary while there’s a dead body at your feet dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

Ignoring him, Stiles wondered aloud, “What are we gonna do with him?”

“The responsible thing would be to drain him, section him, and bury him in various locations throughout the territory,” Peter said.

There was an awkward silence around the abandoned car.

“But personally I think we should put him in the trunk and let the police think Gerard killed him,” Peter said, to palpable relief.

“Fine,” Derek agreed tersely. “Let’s go.”

* * *

It was 4 a.m. by the time Peter dropped off Stiles, cruiser missing from the house as the sheriff was still leading the search from the station.

Peter could feel a pack bond, thread thin and easily broken, but already stronger than anything he had with Derek. So when Stiles turned to him as they sat in the driveway, Peter thought nothing of leaning in to rub his cheek along Stiles’, scenting him.

A hint of death still hung around him, but no longer emanated _from_ him. He smelled like fresh rain and coffee, as Peter remembered from before, but with a new overlay of crackling energy. The closeness of new pack hit him hard, settling over him like a weighted blanket.

“Uh.”

Peter sighed, but didn’t remove himself from Stiles’ space, too relieved with his first real pack contact in six years.

“You’re familiar with scenting?” he said, voice slightly muffled from where his face was tucked into Stiles’ neck.

“I guess? Not on, like, such a _personal_ level though,” Stiles answered. “... Why?”

“To strengthen pack bonds, communicate status to other werewolves, and for social, emotional, and physical health,” Peter rattled off.

“Huh. I didn’t know that,” Stiles said thoughtfully. “So like, do werewolves get touch starved easily? Do you get sick if you don’t touch? Wait, no, don’t distract me, I meant why are you scenting _me?”_

Peter reluctantly pulled back.

“You’re pack,” he said simply. “I returned your degenerate ghostly self back to your body. I don’t do that for just anyone, you know, even if they do promise me loyalty and alphahood.” He ended his statement with a smirk.

Stiles’ mouth formed a small O, and Peter could practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes.

“You _like_ me,” Stiles said with a slow grin. “Like, actually! As a person. You _like_ me.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Stiles. I believe that was one of the first things I established after we met.”

Stiles waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah, but you were crazy then, it didn’t count.”

Peter resisted the temptation to roll his eyes again.

“What are you going to tell your father?”

“Dissociative amnesia.”

Peter raised a heavily skeptical eyebrow.

“You think he’s going to buy that?”

“What else is he going to believe?” Stiles countered. It’s not like I’m going to have to fake the shit load of relief and exhaustion I’m feeling.”

“I suppose,” Peter said doubtfully. “You shouldn’t keep him waiting any longer.” He nodded his head toward the dark house.

“Yeah.” Stiles’ hand hesitated at the car door handle, and he looked back once more. “Thanks, Peter,” he said. His voice was so sincere it nearly took all the air out of the car. All the space, any remaining careful distance- the amount of sincerity in those two words evaporated it, leaving Peter incredibly vulnerable for that brief moment.

Then Stiles got out and let himself into his house. Peter heard him pick up the phone as he pulled away.

He breathed out as he drove down the road, carefully assessing their pack bond.

It was _much_ stronger than the one with Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that wraps up what I've lowkey been calling "Part 1"! Part 2 is an amorphous blob of possibilities that I'm trying to turn into chapters, I'll let you know how it goes.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter felt like he could sleep for at least three days.

Stiles graciously gave him two before sending rapid fire texts.

Peter heard the pings to his phone while cooking dinner and cocked his head, wondering who could possibly be texting him. He hadn’t even given his number to Derek yet.

When he saw the name that Stiles had apparently programmed into his phone for himself, he rolled his eyes, a slight uptick in the corner of his mouth until he saw the content of the messages.

**_From: The Stilinskmaster_ ** **_  
_ ** _I accidentally blew up the dishwasher_

**_From: The Stilinskmaster_ ** **_  
_ ** _Like magically exploded it_

**_From: The Stilinskmaster_ ** **_  
_ ** _I don’t even know how and my dad is freaking out_

**_From: The Stilinskmaster_ ** **_  
_ ** _Peter h e l p_

Peter’s stomach twisted. How close had Stiles been to the explosion? He examined their pack bond, wondering if it was strong enough for him to know whether Stiles was seriously injured.

**_From: Peter_ ** _  
_ _Are you hurt?_

**_From: The Stilinskmaster_ ** **_  
_ ** _Emotionally, I’m shitting bricks. Physically, I’m fine._

Relieved, Peter quickly turned off the stove, checked his hair, and then grabbed his keys and hurried to his car.

When he arrived, he could hear the yelling from the driveway. Actually, the neighbors without supernatural hearing could probably hear it too.

“-the hell is going on with you!!”

“Nothing! Nothing is going or on or ongoing!! I’m telling you, it’s probably a manufacturing defec-”

Peter knocked on the door. It went silent in the house. A few steps later, the door opened to show John, slightly red in the face with tension lines around his eyes.

“Hale. This isn’t a good time-”

John got cut off when Stiles pushed past him.

“Peter!! Peter knows a lot about dishwashers! A regular mechanical genius!” Stiles said enthusiastically, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him into the house. “He can probably tell us exactly what caused the explosion.”

Peter allowed Stiles to pull him along, suppressing the immediate desire to pull him in for a fresh scent marking after 2 days apart.

“Stiles,” John said in a severe warning tone, following them into the kitchen. “Mr. Hale doesn’t need to do anything, and we’re not done talking.”

“What is there to talk about, unless it’s calling up Whirlpool to get a replacement?” Stiles countered, arms folded and standing next to Peter.

Peter ignored both of them for a moment as they argued, looking at what was left of the dishwasher.

The top dish rack was across the room, broken into three parts. The mangled pieces of the bottom rack were barely recognizable; one had even pierced a cabinet door. Scorch marks were scattered here and there, evidence of the violence of the explosion, and his stomach twisted again. He cleared his throat.

“You know, I have some tools in my car that would help me with this. Stiles, could you come help me bring them in?” Peter said, already heading back to the front door.

Stiles quickly followed, scooting past his baffled and frustrated father. As soon as the door closed behind them they started hissing at each other.

“You have to tell him,” Peter pressed quietly. “Stiles, this changes the situation. I know you want to keep him safe, but his ignorance would be the biggest danger right now.”

“Really? Really?! You think me, 147 pound, benchwarmer me, is more of a danger than werewolves?” Stiles said, looking over his shoulder to see John glaring out the window.

Peter popped his trunk and ducked behind it, pulling Stiles with him.

“No, I think untrained-magic-you is more of a danger than werewolves,” he shot back. “The force of that explosion could have killed him _and_ you. It could have started a fire.” He paused for a moment, working his jaw. “I _just_ got you your body back. I’m not doing it again.” He folded his arms staunchly.

Neither of them said anything about how with Deaton gone, it wouldn’t be an option anyway. If Stiles died again, it would be permanent this time.

Stiles was clearly upset and agitated. As he shifted on his feet, trying to come up with an argument, Peter heard a rattling from the spare tire compartment. He kept a wary eye on it and grabbed Stiles’ wrist, ready to pull him away before another burst of magic could hurt anyone.

“Peter, he’s all I have left,” Stiles said lowly. “There are just too many ways this could go wrong.”

Peter started rubbing calming circles into Stiles’ wrist.

“Name three.”

“What?”

“Name three things that could go wrong,” Peter clarified.

“Ooookay. One, learning about the supernatural puts him in the crosshairs of some spooky dipshit.”

“Not knowing about the supernatural won’t protect him from ‘spooky dipshits,’” Peter said dryly with audible air quotes. “It only means he won’t know what’s attacking him.”

Stiles pinched his lips.

“He could decide he’s on the side of hunters like the Argents,” Stiles tried next, obviously angling for Peter’s self-preservation instincts to kick in.

“If you really thought your father was that bigoted, then you wouldn’t care nearly as much about protecting him,” Peter said calmly.

Stiles looked away.

“He could decide he just doesn’t want to deal with me anymore.” He looked back at Peter, eyes tense. “I’m not an easy kid to have, alright? I snoop, I scheme, I have ADHD, I’m _difficult._ I would be difficult for two parents, much less one. What if he finds out I have this- this magic thing now, and I don’t even have the first idea of how to control it, and he just finally decides that’s enough?”

Peter paused, and wondered what had happened in Stiles’ life that made him believe his father’s abandonment was a real possibility. He looked askance for a moment before finally giving in to his instincts, and yanking Stiles into a hug and murmuring into the hair above his ear.

“If your dad is stupid enough to turn you away because you turned out to be even more extraordinary than he knew, then he doesn’t deserve you. But Stiles, do you honestly think you can keep this a secret? Would you rather wait for a catastrophic event to reveal everything, or do it now when we can control it?”

Stiles buried his face further into Peter’s shoulder. There was silence as Peter rubbed Stiles’ back, slowly relaxing him. The spare tire stopped rattling and Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

They heard the front door open.

He quickly released Stiles and closed the trunk.

“What about those tools?” John asked suspiciously.

Stiles glanced at Peter one more time.

“Maybe... we should talk about it again before we get those.”

* * *

“You were dead.”

It wasn’t the first time John had repeated that.

“Yeah, Dad. But like we said, I got better! I’m totally fine now!!”

John slowly raised his gaze from the floor for the first time in several minutes.

“And you said Gerard Argent, the man who killed you, he’s already dead?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yeah. He survived long enough to crawl off into the woods, but I followed him. He’s-” Stiles’ face screwed in disgust up at the memory. “He’s definitely dead.”

Peter could read the look on John’s face as clearly as if it were on his own. It was the combating feelings of relief that justice was already served, against the resentment of not having been the one who served it.

“And… you were the one who... helped Stiles,” John directed at Peter. “Because you knew how to do that. Because you’d just done it to… yourself.”

“Yes,” Peter confirmed.

“And you’re a werewolf.”

“Yes.”

“And Derek Hale’s a werewolf.”

“Yes.”

“And Scott’s a werewolf, because you were insane, but now you’re better because you died and came back.”

“Yes.”

John sat back and stared at the ceiling for a long minute.

“Lemme see the face again.”

Peter obligingly shifted back and forth a couple of times. John rubbed his own face in disquiet.

“Okay. Three werewolves, two resurrections, and one magic son. Okay.”

Peter could smell the beginnings of a flop sweat and wondered if the sheriff was going to lose it, but it was cut off when John’s phone rang. He startled and cursed, seeing the time and who was calling.

“Hey Parrish, sorry I’m running late- shit, how many cars? Yeah, I’ll meet you there.” He hung up and got to his feet, immediately switching to sheriff mode. “I have to go, there’s a four car pile up. You two- just- God, I don’t know. Clean up the damn dishwasher.”

He was out the door two minutes later.

Stiles blew out a deep breath.

“He’ll be at work for a while. Hopefully by the time he comes back he’ll have processed it a little.”

Peter supposed it could have gone worse; could have gone much worse, actually. But he certainly wasn’t impressed.

Peter followed Stiles into the kitchen where he was picking up pieces of the dishwasher and carefully putting them in the trash.

“Have you heard anything about Erica and Boyd?” Stiles asked, tugging on the chunk stuck in a cabinet door. Peter stepped over and gently knocked his hand away from the sharp edges, carefully pulling it out himself.

“I’ve been resting and recovering. I haven’t heard from anyone,” he answered.

“Recovering?” Stiles asked over his shoulder, crouching down to pull out a tube of woodfill and a spackle knife from under the sink.

“Yes,” Peter drawled. “Not all of us have an endless supply of magical energy to call on in our recovery from death. _Some_ of us have to do it alone.”

Stiles’ eyebrows remained furrowed as he started filling in the holes.

“Derek didn’t check on you? I mean, he’s technically your Alpha. That seems like something an Alpha should be doing.”

Peter tilted his head noncommittally.

“Yes, under normal circumstances an Alpha would at least check on a struggling pack member, if not outright bring them back to their house to care for them. However, these aren’t exactly normal circumstances,” he said sardonically. “Derek was never meant to be an Alpha. Talia never taught him how to handle Alpha responsibilities, and I think we can assume that Laura didn’t get around to it either.”

Stiles frowned at a particularly deep gouge in the cabinet.

“Did you ever get trained to be an Alpha?”

Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

“Are you questioning my ability to lead a pack?” he asked, a hint of something dangerous in his voice. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“It’s a fair question, dude. I said I’d help you become an Alpha again, I didn’t say I’d let you be a shitty one.”

Peter tried to suppress a smile in the corner of his mouth, delighted by Stiles’ demand for excellence. He would make a wonderful emissary.

“If you didn’t get in-person training,” Stiles continued, “then you better read up on leadership techniques or whatever before you get all ruby-eyed again.”

“My mother taught me along with Talia,” Peter assured him. “My training perhaps wasn’t as thorough- Talia was the expected heir, and I was essentially the backup. I was only 12 when Mother chose to pass on the spark to Talia, and my lessons became somewhat sporadic and lackluster after that that,” he finished dryly.

“She _chose_ to pass it on? So Alphahood is not actually a to-the-death power struggle?” Stiles asked, surprised.

“Your spackle is going to dry out,” Peter pointed out, nodding at the open container that hadn’t been touched for the last few minutes. Stiles hurriedly put the lid on and gestured impatiently for Peter to answer.

“In a stable pack, no. When the Alpha reaches an age or condition where they feel the need, or even just the desire to hand off the responsibility, they pass it on to their chosen heir. It’s a peaceful exchange of power.”

Stiles finished washing his spackle knife and left it to dry, coming to lean against the counter next to Peter. Peter wondered if Stiles realized that their arms were brushing.

“So, theoretically, I guess you could persuade or coerce an Alpha into passing on the spark to you,” Stiles mused. “Of course, what happens after you let them go? They hunt you down and take it back. The only way to be sure they don’t come back for it is to kill ‘em.”

Peter nodded.

“The Alpha power is a fascinating subject,” he said. “It can be used a number of ways- but we can talk about that later. Right now we ought to focus on you.”

Stiles sighed, but indicated that Peter should follow him upstairs.

“You were right. There really, really isn’t much information on ley mages. Everything I’ve found is either ‘look at this weird old story lol’ or just general information that might fit any magic user.” Stiles opened his laptop and plopped himself down, immediately bringing his gangly legs up and crossing them beneath him in the chair.

Seeing nowhere else to sit, Peter delicately perched himself on the surprisingly tidily made bed.

“It’s probably not a bad idea to start out with the general advice. You need the basics first anyway,” he suggested, a little distracted by how comfortable the mattress was and how good it smelled in here. “For instance, choosing an anchor to prevent magical explosions.”

Stiles grimaced.

“Yeah… I don’t know what though. Thinking about my dad stresses me out because I’m worried about hurting him, thinking about Lydia doesn’t really do much for me anymore, Scott-” Stiles cut himself off. After a beat of silence, he continued, “Maybe like, a peaceful landscape or something? But running water makes me need to pee-”

Peter understood that he wasn’t actually needed for this particular decision. Stiles needed to talk it through with himself and practice until he arrived at an anchor that would work for him. He stretched out on the bed, getting more comfortable. The cadence of Stiles’ voice filled his ears, and Stiles’ scent surrounded him. A deep part of his soul sighed in relief. _Pack._ He watched Stiles start to slowly rotate in his desk chair, spinning in circles has he talked in the same shape.

Sometime between his eighth and ninth circle, Peter’s eyes closed. Stiles reached out one foot to stop himself and leaned forward, listening. Peter’s chest raised with steady, even breaths.

Not quite sure why, Stiles quietly turned back to his laptop instead of waking him up to demand he suffer through the decision with him. He didn’t understand the warm satisfaction he felt at seeing Peter peacefully asleep, and he liked the feeling too much to question it deeply. Instead, he opened a new tab and typed in _Alpha Power_.

* * *

Peter woke up in a dark room, with a warm body next to him. He vaguely remembered Stiles making a half hearted attempt to wake him up and make him move, but Peter had been far too comfortable to oblige. There was also a dim memory of the mattress bouncing slightly as Stiles flopped down next to him and shoved his cold feet at Peter. Instead of moving away, Peter just grabbed them and held them prisoner in his hands, warming them up and preventing further kicking before going right back to sleep.

He was fully awake now, though- _something_ had woken him up-

A third heartbeat in the house.

The sound of a bottle being opened followed by a sigh told Peter that the sheriff was home. Peter considered his options. He could leave by the window, and John wouldn’t know he’d stayed so late. He could go back to sleep. This was by far the most tempting option. Peter hadn’t slept so well, or so restfully, since before the fire. He nearly felt back to his normal strength.

However, eventually he untangled himself from Stiles, straightened his clothes and hair, and went downstairs.

John was drinking in the armchair, eyes closed, when Peter silently entered the room. He cleared his throat to announce himself and John startled, reaching for the sidearm that he’d taken off a few minutes before. Peter waited for him to calm down, wondering if he should tell the sheriff just how useless normal bullets would have been or if he should let Stiles do that.

“What are you still doing here?” John hissed, the tips of his ears red with embarrassment and anger.

“Stiles and I were working on finding an anchor for his magic,” he answered, hands in his pockets to appear non-threatening. “Something to help prevent the earlier event with the dishwasher from happening again.”

John looked up with hope.

“You know about this- this magic stuff? You can teach him?” he asked eagerly.

Peter spoke his reply carefully.

“Stiles’ type of magic is… rare. I don’t have details on the exact ways in which his magic works. I can help him with the basics like finding an anchor, and I can help him research, but if you’re looking for a teacher… I’m not sure one exists. Stiles is incredibly unique.”

John sighed again, rubbing his face in disappointment.

“Unique. Yeah, that’s the word for Stiles,” he said tiredly.

It irked Peter sharply to hear his name spoken in that tone.

“Speaking of words, I’d like to have one with you John. You may want to consider cutting back on hours for at least a short while.”

Peter immediately knew he’d hit a nerve. John’s faced turned to stone.

“I’m an elected official. My job has to get done, being there in person is _important-”_

“More important than Stiles?” Peter cut in. “I’m not suggesting you quit, John, I’m not even suggesting you take part-time leave. I’m suggesting that you stop taking overtime until Stiles has more control over his magic.”

John’s face spasmed, a fleeting vulnerable expression crossing his eyes before he turned his head away, rubbing a hand over his mouth. When he looked back at Peter, he looked almost pleading.

“I can’t help him, Peter.” It sounded like a confession, a sin to be whispered to a priest. “I can’t do anything for him. I don’t know anything about this, I- I’m the goddamn _sheriff_ of this county and I didn’t even know that there were- were _things_ running around murdering the people I’m responsible for protecting! What is me being home going to do for him, other than highlight just how useless I am?”

Peter heard an edge of desperation to his question, an honest request for an answer.

“First, don’t ever refer to us as ‘things’ again,” Peter said bluntly. John cringed a bit. “I am one of those ‘things’, and now Stiles is too.” He let that sit in the air between them for a moment before continuing. “Second, Stiles doesn’t need you to _know_ anything. _He_ barely knows anything about it. I scarcely know more than him. What he needs is the presence of his father. Encouragement when he gets discouraged, assurance that you still love him no matter how many times he fucks up along the way to learning how to manage this- to be honest, I’ll feel a lot better if he just has someone with him more often than not simply to pull him out of the way of any more explosions.”

John sat back in his armchair, rubbing his forehead.

“You think more explosions are likely?”

“I honestly don’t know. Most magic users grow into their magic as they age, gaining one or two abilities at a time. Stiles is essentially being thrown into the deep end with no life vest or swim lessons.”

John looked suspicious.

“Why? Why didn’t he grow up with it? Did the whole resurrection thing _cause_ this?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

“You could say that,” Peter said, more than willing to let Stiles handle that particular conversation. They’d entirely left Deaton out of the earlier conversation. “But there’s no way to put it back in the bottle now. My point is that you need to be more aware of how Stiles might be in danger. If he’s upset, keep him away from glass. If he’s stressed out, find a way to help him meditate.”

John was quiet for a moment before saying with a sigh, “This is just like teething all over again.”

“... Excuse me?” Peter said, incredulous.

John looked at him with tired, but amused eyes.

“There’s not much you can do for a baby cutting teeth. You can give them pain relievers and cold chew toys or even offer your fingers, but in the end the baby has to cut their teeth on their own, and they have no words to explain exactly how it feels.” John went quiet for a moment. “I’ll cut back on overtime.”

Peter nodded, satisfied.

“-But I want your phone number,” John continued sternly. “And I want to know where you’re living. It sounds like,” he sighed again. “Whatever this ‘pack’ thing is, it sounds like you’re going to be a big part of this for a while. You may not know much about Stiles’ magic, but you definitely know things about werewolves. I’m going to have questions. Make sure you’re here for dinner on Sunday.” He managed a tired smile. “Maybe if you’re there he won’t make us eat anything vegan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles: Dad I don't remember what happened, it's the amnesia.   
> *dishwasher explodes*  
> Stiles: ...it's the amnesia.


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles and John got the replacement dishwasher installed that week, only for Stiles to then immediately shatter the bathroom window when a spider startled him during his shower. A few more burst light bulbs, a levitating coffee table, and spontaneous freezing of the plumbing all happened within the week after that. At the end of it, he still didn’t have an anchor, Erica and Boyd were still missing, and the Alpha pack, whoever they were, still hadn’t made a move.

Stiles was, in a word, _frustrated_.

Mostly with himself, but also with Derek for not returning his calls, and Peter for not being helpful in getting Derek to return his calls. And also with the new dishwasher.

“What am I doing wrong? Why does the top rack keep falling down halfway through the cycle?” he muttered to himself as he examined the plates for scratches.

“Is everything tightened properly?” Peter asked, leaning over the counter to look closely at it. Stiles stopped him with a glare.

“No! I want no help from you unless it’s help getting Derek to fucking talk to us!” He turned his back to Peter, completely at peace with his own petulance.

Peter rolled his eyes heavenward, even as his own irritation with Derek bristled under his skin.

“I don’t know what you expect of me, Stiles. He won’t return my calls either, and his scent hasn’t been in that godforsaken station for days.”

“What the hell is he even _doing_ then?” Stiles huffed, finally putting the plates away.

“Skulking? Brooding? Maybe he’s been getting his eyebrows threaded, I could see that taking weeks.”

Stiles gave a snort of laughter.

“Stop it, you’re going to give me nightmares of Derek with penciled-in eyebrows.”

“Hmmm, just like Clara Bow,” Peter suggested, distracted as he checked an email alert on his phone.

Stiles grinned as he finished the silverware.

“I’ll allow it, but only if he styles his hair the same way as her too.” When Peter didn’t respond, Stiles looked up to see him focused on his phone. “What? What is it?”

Peter showed him the screen with a slow smile.

“I’ve finally had my access to the family bank account restored. Looks like Derek’s been investing in local real estate.”

Stiles smiled right back at him. A quick search later they had an address, and fifteen minutes after that they were pulling up to an incredibly depressing building. Peter followed his nose up to the top loft, and Stiles followed Peter.

Derek was already glaring by the time they entered.

“Well, I suppose it’s a step above an abandoned subway station,” Peter said, looking judgmentally at a hole in one of the walls. “Not a big one, but it’s something.” Stiles impatiently stepped around him.

“Where have you looked for Boyd and Erica? Where’s Isaac?” he demanded. “Oh my God, did you lose Isaac?!”

Derek huffed and turned away from both of them, crouching down next to a box Stiles hadn’t noticed at first.

“Isaac’s picking up the rest of his stuff and bringing it here. And you know exactly what happened with Erica and Boyd. They chose to leave the pack.”

“No,” Stiles said, vehemently shaking his head. “No, dude, they were definitely coming back. Gerard beat the shit out of them, and when I got them free they just wanted to go find you.”

Derek’s shoulders were hunched and tense as he pulled decorative hand towels, of all things, out of the box.

“You’re wrong. They told me that I wasn’t- that they wanted a better pack. A better Alpha.”

“I’m not fucking wrong!” Stiles insisted. He turned to Peter, a beseeching look on his face. Peter sighed heavily.

“Derek. I’m sure you’re a terrible Alpha-”

_“Not helpful,”_ Stiles hissed.

“-but it’s very likely that Stiles is not mistaken. The fear they experienced that night, not to mention the physical trauma, would have pulled them back to your side no matter how tenuous your bond. And besides, if there’s even the slightest chance that he’s right, that Erica and Boyd were trying to get back to you and were somehow forcibly detained- it’s your responsibility as Alpha to be sure.”

Derek had a hand fisted in the towels. Stiles was pretty sure he could see claws through the embroidered terrycloth.

“They made it very clear that they wanted nothing to do with me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And _you_ made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with bath time when you were four years old, but I still made you take one because that’s what you _do_ when you’re responsible for someone,” Peter said impatiently. “They are _new wolves,_ Derek! Pups! This is not a peer-to-peer situation! Until you are absolutely sure that another Alpha has taken responsibility for them, that falls on _you.”_

Derek’s claws were definitely tearing through the towels now.

“I don’t- I’m not- I was never supposed to be Alpha!” he growled, getting into Peter’s face. Peter stood his ground, eyes flashing.

“And whose fault is it that you are?!” Peter yelled back.

Derek snapped. He roared, swinging an arm back, claws fully extended and clearly aiming for Peter’s face.

Protectiveness flared in Stiles- _no one_ was going to hurt Peter. He pinned his energy to Derek, like a butterfly to a display.

Derek stopped moving, completely frozen. Peter startled, prepared for an attack that suddenly wasn’t coming. When he realized that Derek actually _couldn’t_ move, he looked at Stiles. His jaw was set, fists clenched at his sides.

“Peter, come stand next to me,” he said through gritted teeth. Cautiously, halfway expecting another explosion any moment, Peter moved. Not a moment after he reached Stiles, Derek’s arm finished swiping through the air, cutting through the place Peter had been standing. The lack of resistance threw him off balance, and he looked over at Stiles in shock.

“What the _f-“_

“Are you going to help us find your betas or not?” Stiles demanded. “I’ve had my hands a little full with this whole mythical magic bullshit, but I’ve been looking through security footage when I have the chance. I haven’t seen anything so far, but I assumed _you_ would search the woods. If you’re not going to do that then tell us now so we don’t waste any more time. Will you help?”

Derek’s expression was still shocked. Slowly, he nodded.

“Good.” Stiles turned away to stalk out of the building. “Text me so we can coordinate. And you better start returning my fucking calls, asshole!” he shouted over his shoulder

Peter smirked unrepentantly at Derek’s dumbfounded expression and followed Stiles out. His smirk dimmed somewhat when he got to the car and realized that Stiles was still fuming. They’d been on the road two minutes when the radio started going haywire.

Peter immediately pulled off onto the shoulder, just in time for the windshield wipers to turn on even though he hadn’t touched the controls.

“Stiles…”

“I know, I know!!” Stiles said through gritted teeth. He tried to take calming breaths, tried to center the flow of his magic and relax. It wasn’t working. The headlights were now turning on and off along with the windows jerkily rolling up and down.

“Okay, what are you upset about right now?” Peter asked in a soothing voice. “Derek? The dishwasher? Those atrocious hand towels?”

The words seemed to burst from Stiles’ mouth.

“What am I _not_ upset about, Peter?! I can’t control my magic, Derek sucks, and I still don’t know if Erica and Boyd are even alive!! I didn’t even really care about them before, you know? Boyd never talked to anyone, and Erica hit me over the fucking head with my muffler because of an unrequited crush! But then I got shot in the brain and _died_ and the only good thing to come out of it were those two getting away, but now it turns out that didn’t even happen. For all I know they got caught by other hunters and died anyway. I was supposed to be _helping_ them and I might’ve just made it _worse_ and I _don’t know-”_

The car’s horn was going now. Not knowing what else to do, Peter reached across the middle console and took Stiles’ face in his hands, forcing him to look at him.

“We’re going to find out what happened,” he said firmly. “I promise, Stiles. I don’t know what state they’ll be in, but they didn’t just disappear. We’ll find them.”

Stiles’ wide eyes looked desperate, and it made Peter’s wolf howl at his inability to immediately fix it. His thumb swept across his cheekbone in an act so unthinkingly intimate that he would have been appalled, had he considered it. It was for the better, though, as Stiles finally managed to close his eyes and slow his breathing.

“How? How are we going to do that Peter?” he asked, eyes still squeezed shut.

“With Derek and Isaac’s help we can start a grid search through the preserve, and you can keep looking through the surveillance data that John gave you. We’ll find something, Stiles.”

Stiles brought his own hands up to Peter’s wrists, wrapping around them with his fingers on the pulse. He seemed to be timing his breaths by it. The horn stopped honking.

“And I wouldn’t say you can’t control your magic, Stiles,” Peter continued, voice quieter as Stiles calmed. “What you just did to Derek? That’s certainly some kind of control. You used it for a specific purpose. You kept me safe.”

Stiles gripped him a little tighter, and the windows stopped moving. The windshield wipers were next, and finally the radio turned off.

Stiles opened his eyes.

“Better?” Peter asked quietly.

Stiles nodded his head, his face tired.

“Do you want to go home?” Peter asked.

Stiles opened his mouth and then hesitated. Peter waited patiently, and sure enough-

“I want a burger. A huge burger. One of the burgers from Lou’s.” He paused again and then said, “I definitely deserve it. I deserve every burger.”

A wave of affection rolled through Peter, strong enough that it took him off guard. He let go of Stiles face, startled, and flexed his fingers a bit as he brought them back to the steering wheel and turned the blinker on to merge back into traffic.

“ _Every_ burger seems a bit much,” he said smoothly, hoping Stiles hadn’t noticed his tiny disruption. He snuck a glance over to the passenger seat, and when Stiles just tapped his fingers along with whatever tune was playing in his head, Peter relaxed a little.

As they drove to Lou’s Diner, he reasoned that Stiles was still his only real pack member. It was natural to feel affectionate; perhaps even an excess of affection. Once he had the Alpha power and a full pack, things would balance out. They were just in a stage of transition.

Satisfied, Peter pulled into Lou’s parking lot, quietly pleased with the prospect of feeding Stiles.

* * *

Derek did, in fact, text Stiles to coordinate their search through the woods. Of course it was just Peter, Derek, and Isaac out in the woods, so the search was slow going.

Back at the house, Stiles was spending most of his time combing through footage that his dad had reluctantly given him access to, and some more footage that he had gotten through slightly more unscrupulous methods.

It was incredibly boring and disheartening work. More than anything else, Stiles was amazed and grossed out to find out just how many people pick their nose when they think no one’s looking.

There was no hint of Erica or Boyd anywhere. It was as if they really had just… vanished.

He sat back from his desk, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey kiddo.”

Stiles startled, his magic shooting out and slamming his door shut in his dad’s face. A muffled voice came from the other side.

“... I’ll just go downstairs then.”

“No! No, sorry,” Stiles called, jumping over to the door and opening it to see his dad’s dry expression. “I just didn’t hear you come in. I’m kind of zoned in to the surveillance tapes.”

John grimaced a bit, still a little uncomfortable with giving his teenage son free reign over police resources.

“No luck?”

Stiles shook his head dejectedly, dropping back into his desk chair and starting the footage up again. John watched his son quietly for a moment before realizing that the lightbulb in the lamp was dimming in time with Stiles’ finger tapping on his desk.

Eager to prevent more broken glass, he said, “Maybe you should take a break. Come eat some dinner and then go back to the search with fresh eyes.”

Stiles rubbed his eyes again in response to his dad’s suggestion, and reluctantly agreed when the blur didn’t go away.

Down in the kitchen, they both reheated some spaghetti from the night before. John updated Stiles on the official missing persons case for Boyd and Erica, although neither of them held much hope for it to find anything.

“Has Scott been helping with the search in the woods? Haven’t heard from him in a while,” John asked eventually. Focused on his pasta, he missed the initial brush of fury across Stiles’ face, but there was no way he could have missed the frozen silence that followed his question. “... Stiles?”

Stiles took a moment to choose his words carefully.

“Scott-” he started, before stopping again. His jaw was clenched, as well as his fist around his fork. “Scott had the chance to help with my resurrection and chose not to. So no, I didn’t ask him to help.”

_“What?”_ John asked, flabbergasted.

Stiles pushed his plate away, setting down his slightly bent fork and breathing deeply as he tried to keep his magic in check.

“He didn’t trust Peter.” Stiles sighed. “Which, yeah, Peter was crazy at first. Absolutely bonkers, and Scott paid a price for that, but it’s not like Peter could help it you know? He didn’t wake up and go ‘being feral sounds super relaxing, I’m gonna do that today.’ He was desperate. Now he’s not. And even if he had been, he was still my only option to come back, but Scott still refused.” Stiles huffed a bitter laugh. “I guess he just decided he hated Peter more than he wanted me alive.”

John’s shock was turning to fury.

“Does Melissa know about this? Does Melissa know about _any_ of this?”

“Dad, don’t,” Stiles said softly. “This is not a ‘my dad talked to your mom and now you have to invite me to your birthday party’ situation. You can’t chastise Scott into, I don’t know, valuing me more or whatever.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “Melissa knows about werewolves. I don’t know how much, but I do know that she’s probably just as stressed out as you are.” Stiles abruptly realized he was exhausted. “I’m done eating. I’ll get the dishes in the morning.”

He quickly made his way upstairs, leaving his dad at the kitchen table, sunk in thoughts about how close he’d come to not getting Stiles back.

Stiles himself sat at his desk, automatically starting up another video to scan. His thoughts were dark and anxious, and he was almost grateful for the mind-numbing search. Slowly, his thoughts became as quiet as his room. Parking lot, grocery store, library, coffee-

He almost missed it. It was so small, and so brief that he nearly didn’t see it.

But there, in the corner of his screen, queuing for coffee, was a woman. A woman whose eyes reflected in the camera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up dudes? How you doing? I'm good. Apparently I missed meeting Brie Larson at the Disney Lego store by four days, and I only cried about it for like six hours, so you could say I'm a real tough bitch 👊
> 
> Anyway, updates will continue to be sporadic and widely spaced, but maybe even a little worse than it has been because I have a new quarter of school starting on Monday ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ We'll seeeeeeee!!
> 
> Also, in case you don't know who Clara Bow is:
> 
> Clearly this was a Lük™ in the day, but like. Damn. She just whole ass tweezed them gone entirely didn't she. Penciled those suckers back in with the most anatomically improbable shape possible.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that I'm an unrepentant idiot who knows nothing about canon and refuses to find out.

Stiles called Peter to come look at the footage immediately.

He didn’t recognize her, but once they put the woman’s face into the recognition program, they discovered that she commonly kept company with four other werewolves, two of which Peter did know.

“Ennis, and Deucalion,” he said, peering closely at the screen. “Alphas.” He tapped his finger against Stiles’ desk for a moment. “Where is this?” he asked, pointing to the frame of all five weres meeting on a street.

“The old bank. The one that got robbed? There’s not much over there now, mostly just foreclosed houses. And werewolves, apparently.”

Peter’s brow furrowed.

“What is he doing with his little pack of Alphas?” he muttered. He seemed to be mostly speaking to himself, so Stiles ignored him.

Instead, he laid out the report of the robbery that had closed the bank alongside the blueprints of the building, chewing on a nail as he waited for something to jump out at him. Some piece of information that would make everything make sense, anything that would explain why a group of Alpha werewolves-

“Hecatolite,” he muttered out loud, reading the blueprint and wondering why it sounded familiar.

Peter’s head snapped up.

“Moonstone?” he said, surprised.  

“That’s it! I knew there was another name for it. The walls of the bank’s vault are lined with it.”

Peter’s face went a shade paler, his expression grim.

After the explanation of what Moonstone could do, Stiles understood why.

“They must be working with a magic user, if they’re using the Moonstone like that,” Peter mused.

Stiles tensed. Pretty much any magic user was going to have a knowledge advantage over him.

“Are you sure? We haven’t seen anyone else on the footage.”

Peter nodded grimly.

“They only would’ve needed to come once, to set it up, but it couldn’t have been done by weres alone.”

Stiles swore under his breath.

“Why are there so many fucking secret magic people in this town?” he muttered.

The plan coalesced quickly after that. The two other werewolves, though appearing young (and twins), were unknowns. As the bank was guarded in twos, it was decided that they would attack when Ennis and Kali were present, leaving the unknown werewolves, the unknown magic user, and Deucalion to deal with later.

“We should wake up John-” Peter said, heading toward Stiles’ bedroom door.

“No.”

Peter looked back at Stiles and his stomach immediately sank. He knew that look.

“Stiles, he’ll want to be involved and we can use-“

“No,” Stiles interrupted again, stone cold. “He can be as angry as he wants later, but I’m not bringing him to a werewolf fight.”

“He’s the sheriff, Stiles, he can defend himself at the very least,” Peter tried to coax.

“I’m not going to pretend this is anything but selfish, because it is. But it still doesn’t change my mind. Besides, as long as we have Derek, it’ll be three against two. Four against two, if he brings Isaac.”

Peter raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

“Oh, and you think my nephew won’t have a problem with me killing an Alpha?” Peter could see the moment it connected on Stiles’ face. “Derek can’t come, Stiles. He killed me the last time, remember? Who’s to say he won’t immediately do that again?”

“You were badger-crazy last time, though,” Stiles hedged. “You’ll be a stable Alpha this time-”

“I’ll still be a competing Alpha,” Peter reminded him flatly. Stiles sighed.

“So we’re going to go against two Alphas with a beta and a brand new spark, both of whom were recently dead,” he summed up.

“Unless you change your mind about John, yes.”

The set of Stiles’ jaw answered that question.

* * *

They took as much time to prepare as they dared, which was no more than a few hours. Stiles threw together a few magical bombs that would irritate the Alpha’s senses, only to be used in a emergency as they would also irritate Peter’s senses. The flash bombs however, were an integral part of their plan, along with the charms that would hide their heartbeat, scent, and footsteps.

Peter watched Stiles work, noting the fluidity of his movements and how easily he seemed to put protective magic into the charms, unsure of whether to be cautious or impressed.

“You’re sure they’ll work?” he asked, prodding a little. “We won’t even get inside the bank if they can hear our heartbeats.”

Stiles slipped one of the charms into his pocket and raised an eyebrow at Peter. It took a moment, but his heartbeat faded away and his scent slowly dissipated. Satisfied, Peter nodded.

They parked a few streets away, out of the street lamps. If the blueprints were right, they would be able to sneak in through a service entrance on the far side of the building, away from the location of the vault, and creep around before attacking where Erica and Boyd were being held.

Holding onto their charms, they silently walked to the service entrance where Stiles picked the lock. Peter only had a few moments of amusement at the clearly well-worn pick kit owned by the son of the sheriff before they were inside.

Inside the building, he changed into his beta shift in the pitch dark, taking point as they slowly worked their way back to the vault. Stiles stumbled along behind him, one hand with a death grip on the back of Peter’s shirt so he wouldn’t get lost. It seemed like an eternity before they finally saw light seeping around the cracks of a door ahead.

Peter heard voices drifting through it, getting louder as they stopped in front of the closed door with two alphas on the other side. He recognized Ennis’ voice.

“-freak twins around town, Kali. Like identical twins aren’t twice as identifiable.”

Peter signaled Stiles to pass him a flash grenade.

“Calm your tits, you’ll get out to stretch your legs soon enough. And I don’t know about twice as identifiable. I’d say half as identifiable.”

He pulled the pin and started counting down.

“Maybe on a personal leve-”

Peter yanked the door open and threw the grenade in, closing the door again against the sudden flare. As soon as the blast disappeared, he burst into the room.

Ennis and Kali were both momentarily blinded, as planned, and without heartbeat or smell to hunt by they were momentarily helpless. Peter took a running leap at Ennis’ back, got his hands on his head, and ripped it off.

Messy, but it was one of the few things even an alpha couldn’t recover from. Peter would prefer safe to sorry.

He had no time to adjust under the swell of Alpha power. He simply rode the wave, grasping onto the increased strength as he spun around and flung Ennis’ decapitated head at Kali before attacking.

Stiles edged along the walls of the room as quickly as he could, heading toward the vault door while keeping an eye on the fight. He was nearly there when Peter slammed into the wall a few feet ahead, sending Stiles scrambling back as Kali launched herself at him. He saw Peter’s eyes flick to him before bleeding red for the first time since his death. The snarl he gave reverberated down Stiles’ spine, and then claws were flying as Peter drew her away from the door.

Stiles ducked in the moment they were gone, putting in the code for the door and frantically trying to get it open. More snarls and growls were coming from within the vault, but they were quieter, weaker.

“This is the second time I’ve gotten you assholes free, so if you attack me I swear to God I will make your life hell through unbelievable pettiness,” he warned through gritted teeth. As he fought the door, he realized that whoever was helping the Alphas had also layered warding onto the vault. He tried to find a weak point to tear through it, distantly noticing that the growls had gotten quieter.

“... Stiles?” The voice was muffled through the door.

“Yeah Catwoman, it’s me.” A huge crack came from the fight behind him. “And Peter.”

“... Derek’s dead uncle?” was Boyd’s voice next, confused.

“Yes. You missed a few things,” Stiles said tightly as he tried to slip his magic between the layers locking him out. Another loud crack came from the fight behind him, but he couldn’t look, couldn’t spare the attention. He let out a frustrated little noise, and slammed his hand against the wall next to the door, blasting brute force into the wards.

To his shock they crumbled, and the door flew open.

Someone came tearing out of the vault, streaking toward Kali, and Stiles realized a beat too late that it wasn’t Erica or Boyd. The figure jumped onto Kali’s back, distracting her long enough for Peter to grab her throat and tear it out with a snarl.

Erica and Boyd stumbled out next, looking sick and halfway feral.

Stiles spun around, eyes wide, to better see the girl standing next to Kali’s body, staring at Peter. Peter was pale, heaving for breath as blood dripped from his claws.

“Cora?” he said faintly, as if he couldn’t believe the word had come from his mouth even as he said it.

The girl said nothing, eyes just as close to feral as Erica and Boyd.

Stiles had no idea what was going on, but he did know it couldn’t happen here.

“Peter, we have to go,” he said urgently. “Whoever’s been helping Deucalion put some serious wards on the vault. We don’t want to be here when they come back.”

Peter reluctantly took his eyes away from the girl, Cora, for a moment to look at Stiles and nod. Then he took a stilted, jerky step away before transitioning back to his usual smooth movement, picking up the bodies to dispose of them. Stiles looked at the dark haired girl, eyes moving over her face as his mind automatically catalogued the similarities to Derek.

“We’re leaving. Want a ride?”

She hesitated, and then sharply nodded once. A few minutes later, Stiles had three traumatized weres, two dead bodies, and one new Alpha crammed into his Jeep.

“I need a fucking minivan,” he muttered to himself as he pulled away.

* * *

Stiles dropped Peter off at their predetermined dump site with the bodies, torn about leaving him there when he was obviously having some kind of emotional upheaval. Peter insisted he was fine, and although Stiles knew he absolutely wasn’t, he also couldn’t force him to talk.

So he left Peter there, and took the other three back to Derek’s.

Stiles couldn’t imagine a more awkward atmosphere. Erica and Boyd were clearly desperate for some sign that they would be allowed to come back, but Derek just stood there, shocked, staring at them and Cora.

Cora was looking intently at Derek, hungrily taking in every detail of his appearance while also maintaining a minimum of two yards between them at all times.

“I thought you were dead,” she said eventually, the first thing she’d said since leaving the vault.

“I thought you were dead too,” said Derek, his tone still rocking with shock.

Stiles, who had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to interject _That’s funny, no one thought I was dead_ , instead chivvied his hands at Erica and Boyd.

“The Hale family soap opera usually ends in a bloodletting or five, so why don’t we just leave them to it?” he suggested, herding them toward the shower.

Erica and Boyd gave one more look to Derek, and then followed Stiles. After he’d dug out a couple more towels (still in moving boxes, come on Derek), he went to the kitchen to see what he could make for the nearly starved wolves while trying to ignore the dramatic family reunion happening in the next room.

As he looked through empty cupboard after empty cupboard, Derek and Cora’s voices began to rise. By the time he realized that literally the only food in the loft was a box of protein bars and two bottles of mustard, they were outright yelling.

“-You _killed_ him?” were the first words Stiles clearly understood, and he winced at Cora’s tone.

“He was _feral,_ Cora! He killed Laura!”

“How do you know? If there were hunters-”

With no food to occupy him, Stiles decided he might as well contribute to the argument. He leaned up against a cabinet that he could easily duck behind in case of flying claws.

“Actually no, Derek’s right. Peter definitely killed her. But like, then Derek killed him? So I would say that crime is paid for. And Peter’s much better now.”

Cora seemed to get angrier with every moment.

“What the _fuck_ has been happening?” she demanded. “Did you and Laura think Peter was dead after the fire?”

Derek’s eyes shifted away, giving away the answer.

“And you left him?” she screeched.

“HE KILLED LAURA!” Derek roared back.

Cora flinched, which made Derek flinch, and sudden silence fell.

“I can’t believe I got kidnapped for this,” Cora said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “This was such a mistake.”

Derek flinched again as if cut.

Stiles scrambled for a pencil and paper, scrawling something on it before balling it up and chucking it at Cora, nearly hitting her in the head just before she caught it. She stopped and turned around, eyes flashing.

Stiles gestured to the crumpled paper and said, “That’s Peter’s phone number.”

Cora just snarled and left the loft. But she was still holding the paper.

Stiles sighed, reluctantly turning to look at Derek.

Derek was clearly barely hanging on to his control. He was tense, and when he turned around to stalk out of the room, he saw Erica and Boyd standing silently behind him, freshly showered. Wounds littered their bodies, clearly provided at the alphas who had kidnapped them. Derek’s face tightened, expression darkening before going blank.

“Get out.”

Erica actually let slip a sound like a wounded puppy. Stiles’ spine shot up straight.

“Woah, Derek-” he tried to intervene, but Derek roared over him again.

“She’s RIGHT. This was a mistake. All of it. GET OUT.”

Erica and Boyd were cowering now, and Stiles had had enough of that shit. When Derek opened his mouth again as if to keep yelling, Stiles gathered his anger and pinned it on him, freezing him in place once again.

“Why don’t you guys wait for me in the Jeep,” he said tightly. “We’ll go get burgers after I talk to Derek.”

The hold was easier this time, Stiles noticed as Erica and Boyd scurried out. He wondered if it was just ease of practice or if he was getting better at control. He released it after the door closed behind the other two, watching Derek breathe heavily with rage for a moment.

“Do you even recognize that you’re in the middle of a breakdown?” Stiles asked. “Can you see it?”

Derek lunged for him and Stiles stumbled back, instinctively forcing him to still again halfway into the kitchen area. Stiles watched him warily for a moment before edging around him toward the front door. He had enough evidence of the wreckage an alpha can cause. No need for further personal experience.

Derek obviously couldn’t see Stiles from where he faced into the kitchen, but Stiles looked back at him once more before leaving.

“You’re not a bad guy, Derek, but you’re making a few awful choices right now. Just- do whatever you need to to figure it out, alright?”

Stiles waited until he was down the hall before releasing Derek. The sound of furniture breaking followed him out of the building.

* * *

Peter still felt like he was in a bit of a daze as he walked up to his building.

Cora was alive.

Cora was _here,_ in Beacon Hills.

He’d had hours to grasp it, the body disposal not enough to distract him, and yet he still…

He paused outside his apartment, the smell of greasy fast food overwhelming at first before he identified Stiles’ scent underneath it. He frowned. Stiles didn’t like fast food chains. He always wanted to go to the diner.

Cautiously, he opened the door, to see Stiles sitting in the middle of a pile of burger wrappers and sleeping traumatized werewolves.

Peter quietly closed the door behind him, raising an eyebrow. Stiles looked back up at him, disgruntled.

“Help me,” he mouthed.

Peter smirked, but went over to the blonde limpet to pry her hands off. Less than a second later she was growling awake and snapping at Peter, ready to claw out his eyes. If Peter hadn’t already had hold of her arms, that is.

“Erica! This is Peter,” Stiles said with a forced calm, but loud enough to be heard over the snarls. “So you should probably stop trying to murder him.”

It took a moment, but the words finally reached her. As soon as she stopped struggling Peter let go, extending a hand to Stiles instead and pulling him out of the pile.

“Did the-” Stiles started to say, but Erica interrupted him, eyes still holding the shadow of her captivity.

“We need an alpha. You need a pack. Take us on.”

Peter stared at her, unimpressed.

“Please,” she tacked on belatedly.

 _“If_ you were ever to be a part of my pack, you would first learn what happens when you interrupt my emissary,” he said, tone smooth and sharp all at once. “Stiles? A moment?”

Stiles followed him into his bedroom, closing the door behind him as he said, “Isn’t this kind of pointless? They can still hear us.”

“Yes, but if they want to be members of my pack, they’ll quickly learn to respect their alpha’s privacy,” he said pointedly. “Speaking of which, why on earth are they here and not with my nephew?” He looked at Stiles expectantly.

Stiles gave a jaw cracking yawn. It was already so goddamn late that it was early.

“Derek kicked them out. I considered taking them home, or to the station but… they need an alpha.” He looked expectantly at Peter.

Peter considered it. They already owed him a debt for rescuing them from the bank… it could prove to be the perfect foundation for loyalty.

It could also be much more work than it was worth to take on two teenage werewolves with enough trauma to star in their own made for TV movie.

He glanced back at Stiles. For whatever reason, he clearly already felt responsible for them.

Peter sighed. He faced the bedroom door, but didn’t bother opening it.

“You two may sleep in the bedroom to the right of this one. We’ll talk about what I expect of you this afternoon.”

A moment later, quiet footsteps passed them, and then another door shut.

“Thanks, Peter,” Stiles said quietly.

Peter waved it off, finally sitting to take off his shoes.

“You’re sleeping here too,” he said. “I don’t trust you to not to fall asleep at the wheel right now.”

Stiles considered arguing, but decided he was too tired to, which probably meant Peter was right anyway.

“Yeah, fine. Do you have a blanket and pillow I can use?”

“Yes, right here on the bed.”

“This is your duvet. You want me to drag your whole duvet over to the couch?”

“No, I want you to sleep in a bed like a normal human being.” And with that, Peter got into bed himself, deciding that gingivitis could wait a few hours while he slept.

Stiles stared at him with his mouth open for a minute, trying to dredge up the energy for a glare. Peter eventually popped his head back up, an irritated expression on his face.

“Get in the bed Stiles. We both need sleep, and the couch isn’t nearly as comfortable as my memory foam.” He flopped back down, getting comfortable again. “Besides, we already shared _your_ mattress, remember? And that one wasn’t nearly as good as mine.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be offended on behalf of his bed or not. He got in anyway.

Belatedly, just before sleep took over, Stiles remembered.

“Emissary, huh?” he mumbled in Peter’s direction without opening his eyes. “You didn’t even ask for my resume.”

“No but I talked to your references. They said you should _go to sleep.”_

With one last sleepy grin, Stiles turned into the pillow and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Derek could use a long bath and maybe some Ativan? And then also 30 years of therapy. 
> 
> Anyways, in case you couldn't tell I'm a real slut for bed sharing. God, I just love it so fucking much. Will they be cuddling when they wake up? Will boners be involved? Will someone walk in on them and get the wrong impression? _Or is it the **right impression???**_


End file.
